


Leave The Lights On.

by bliphany



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Major Character Death as major character is dead all along, Memories, Mutual Pining, Podfic Welcome, Second Chances, Supernatural Elements, Time - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 19:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16750393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bliphany/pseuds/bliphany
Summary: "What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn't know it's dead." —Richard Siken.Dead people are coming back from the afterlife to their loved ones, flooding the city with regrets yearning to be undone and unspoken words demanding to be heard this time.Finch doesn't believe in ghosts.He leaves no comment about miracles.But John believes it. He knew it existed when the night wind blew strongly against their bodies and the time was counting down; when Harold left on his chest permanently his fingerprints and made it happened.It's a miracle they're both still breathing.They might need another one to see what does it mean before the end of everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [st_aurafina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Art for Leave the Lights On](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16750285) by [st_aurafina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina). 



> So many, many thanks to [st_aurafina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina) for making beautiful arts for this story, for beta-reading for me and making this fic so much better, and for being super supportive and lovely during the whole creating process. <3
> 
> And many thanks to my sprinting pals, you guys are honestly the best! <3

At eight o'clock sharp in the morning, there's a dull sound of the door closing downstairs of the library, followed by footsteps echoing in the corridor a few seconds later. Harold doesn't need to check any camera or raise his head to know it's John. Nobody but them know about this place, and after all those times they've shared here, it's hard to imagine it might one day be someone different.

Certainty is something Harold Finch tends to avoid. Anything predictable is a flaw in the system, but this isn't one of them. This is the opposite. Every morning John walks into the library with a box of pastries in one hand and their tea in the other, his footsteps unhurried, stable, as if this always-quiet building has a heartbeat—a sound that means safety, and hope.

They're going to help someone today, Harold reminds himself, that's all that matters. What they've built together is bigger than him and far more important than his own craving.

Bear barks cheerfully and jumps out of his dog bed to greet John. He presses hard onto John's leg, almost knocking him over, and then follows John's heels all the way back to Harold's chair, his tail waggling.

John carries their breakfast unharmed to the desk and then crouches down to answer Bear's enthusiasm with a thorough, caring pat.

Harold can't help but smile, the dull ache in his chest almost bearable. It's the right decision to be made, from now on everything will go back to how it used to be. It'll be beneficial for everyone. The numbers. And their job. Reese's need, his purpose of saving people, won't be complicated by another person's individual want. At least, Harold can still have these pure, blissful slices of life—

John lifts his head to look up to Harold, his eyes unearthly blue. Are they always this blue? Harold wonders. Perhaps it's because of the light, because of how those eyes reflect John's enthusiasm whenever he's happy—successfully helping a number, playing with Bear, exchanging an inside joke with Harold—or the tenderness John has always been so generous to give. Harold wonders whether he had ever looked at John in this light before, and now that he's seen this, how—

"Morning, Finch." John's voice brings his mind back to this world. How long has he been staring at John's face, seconds or more? If John notices, he doesn't show it. He smiles at Harold with patience. Acceptance. Even forgiveness.

"Good morning, Mr. Reese." Harold clears his throat cautiously. "Did you rest well? I hope the incident last night didn't affect your hard-earned sleep."

John stands up and reaches for his tea. "No. What did I miss?" He takes a slip while turning toward the glass board. "Wait. Is that right?"

The board where Harold used to stick their number's photo is now covered with faces of all ages and different backgrounds, even onto the frame. There's still a stack of photos waiting on the desk.

"Well." Harold mentally scolds himself. They have a much more important thing at hand. That's why they're here. "It all started last night. The whole situation still needs to be clarified, but there was an unidentified object dropped in the center of New York City. Fortunately, no one was hurt. The remarkably high energy it carried, however, caused a sudden energy surge that paralyzed the networks for a short while. Landlines. Internet. Some of them are still having functional problems as we speak."

"And it affected your Machine as well," John says, concerned.

"I'm afraid so. It has been sending numbers since midnight. At first, I thought there was a mafia war coming, but then, there were too many numbers, and all of them seemed different."

"Maybe it got confused." John approaches the glass board, frowning. "All these people... Do they share anything in common?"

"Actually, they do. I've been cross-referencing demographic databases and-" Harold says while typing instructions to open some windows on the monitor, "-all these numbers belong to people who are officially dead."

John makes a surprised sound. He bends down from behind Harold's chair to read.

Harold holds his breath, now painfully aware of how close John is; his body heat pressing on Harold's back, like a blanket John would kindly drape over Harold's shoulders when they spent a cold night in the library working.

"I don't know, Finch. Officially, we're both dead, too." And now John is speaking near Harold's ear. He must do that in purpose. "And remember Therese? If your Machine sent those numbers, there must be a reason."

Since when has John built such faith in the Machine? Harold's suddenly illogically annoyed. "All 170 people faking their death? Highly improbable. And the Machine hasn't stopped. The list of dead numbers is still growing."

Dead numbers. Harold reflects his choice of words. Are they going to call these people by that now? And what is that supposed to mean?

"There must be some of them are still alive and need our help," John mutters, "How can we find them among all those numbers? I can't track all of them at the same time."

"You're right. Before I figure out how to fix the Machine, we have to come up with a way to distinguish them from the rest."

"What's your plan?"

"Excuse me." Harold swivels the chair slightly, to which John steps back instantly. Harold leaves the seat and then limps near the board to point out a photo.

A teenage girl wearing braces, with hazel eyes and brown hair braided into two ponytails. It's a photo on the missing person bulletin.

"Maggie Wilson," Harold introduces, "13-year-old when reported missing 25 years ago. Last seen by her elder sister. They were supposed to go home together from the town's fair, but they lost each other in the crowd. Despite her family's attempts to find her, Maggie never came home. She was later presumed dead. The Wilsons' old house is in the neighborhood, so I started to look into their case first. The elder sister, Susan Wilson-" Harold sticks another photo beside Maggie's. It's a middle-aged woman with the same brown hair but dark eyes, her expression blank and weary. "-40 years-old now. Divorced 8 years ago. No children. She's the only one who still lives there."

"As though she wants to remind herself," John says. Concerned, Harold glances at him. But before he can say anything, John continues, "If Maggie is the one on the list, does it mean she's alive and now in danger?"

"You might have to find out in person. Luckily, we don't have to search for her whereabouts. Maggie went back to the Wilson house last night."

"Sounds like a moving reunion."

"The most bizarre thing here, Mr. Reese, is that when Maggie got back home yesterday," Harold says, "she was still a 13-year-old girl."

John raises his eyebrow.

"Before we find a way to sort out these numbers, maybe we should also look into what's going on here," Harold suggests, "We may start with her."


	2. Chapter 2

[](http://tinypic.com/?ref=2rcr3om)

When John comes across Carter a few blocks away from Wilson's house, the Detective gives him a skeptical look. John smiles back, harmlessly.

Carter keeps walking for two more blocks, and after she realizes they're heading to the same place, she stops. "Are you kidding me?" she says, "Don't tell me they're in trouble. I know you guys are gonna prevent it, but trust me, this is really not a good time."

"I haven't seen any immediate threat just yet, Carter." John puts on an innocent face. It seems Carter knows and cares about the two sisters, so John decides to dig some more. "You know about Maggie Wilson's case? I heard that she went missing 25 years ago. It was before you were here in the 8th precinct, wasn't it?"

"I know her sister, Susan. He ex-husband was a regular guest in the precinct due to alcohol and brawls, and later, he got himself into loan shark troubles." Carter sighs. "Once, he even asked Susan to be a co-signer."

"And you helped her," John says, in admiration.

"Poor Susan. She always came to the precinct to bail her husband out, even in the middle of the night. After he started to ask her for money to pay off his debts, Susan gave him almost everything she'd earned. Then, she had to borrow money from old colleagues or friends who hadn't left her yet. I couldn't let that man drag her into his own mess like that," Carter says, her expression resolute. "Sometimes I feel... Susan still hasn't moved on from what happened."

"Uhm." John thinks, empathetically. "She believes that Maggie's disappearance is her fault."

"When I suggested Susan walk away from that marriage, she only asked how would I feel if I failed to be there for someone needed me."

John falls silent. The feeling rising from the bottom of his heart isn't good. "She was also just a child back then."

"It was tough, you know. Two little girls went to the fair, hand in hand, and one of them never came back. I think Susan never forgave herself."

Because it's hard, John knows. People can't even allow themselves to move on from what they've done wrong because they believe that they don’t deserve forgiveness.

After a while, John says, "But Maggie came back to her last night."

Carter glances at him. "One day I'll figure out how you guys do this. First, you get tips before violent crimes happen, and now this? Anyway, I got Susan's call earlier this morning. She told me that Maggie's back, but something is wrong. She asked if I could visit her today in case she's out of her mind."

"Because Maggie is still a little girl when Susan is a woman now? How's it possible, Carter?"

"No idea. We'll see, then."

They wait after Carter rings the bell. The door opens, and Susan Wilson's pale face revealed from behind the half-closed door.

"Detective Carter," Susan greets, still in her sleeping gown, her hair messy but eyes abnormally bright as if she's having a fever. She looks at John nervously.

"This is John. He's a friend," Carter assures. "May we come in?"

"Ah... sure." Susan opens the door. "Sorry I haven't had time to tidy up."

They walk into the living room. A girl curls up on the sofa, her long, slightly damp and curled hair covering most of her face. She gives no attention to either of them, toying with a cell-phone.

"Mag?" Susan asks, but Maggie doesn't reply. Susan keeps her hands crossed over her chest awhile, staring at her little sister, puzzled. Then, Susan raises one hand to rub her forehead, her voice faint like a ghost. "She's very interested in it... Not like I need it for anything though..."

"Susan," Carter calls her gently, "How are you feeling? Have you eaten?"

"Ugh, sorry," Susan wakes from her own mind, "Have a seat, please. Sorry for all the mess, I haven't..." Then, she realizes she's already apologized, so Susan drifts into the kitchen after saying "I forgot to make coffee... Or tea? Do you prefer tea or coffee?"

"Just water will be fine," Carter says softly, "maybe we could all sit down and talk?"

But Susan's already in the kitchen. After a series of worrisome noises, she brings back a pot of tea and a plate of cookies. She replaces the empty one in front of Maggie, mumbling if she needs some more.

Without a word or even lifting her head, Maggie grabs one cookie and stuffs it into her mouth, her eyes glued to the phone.

John wonders what she's doing on it.

"Why are you here?" It takes John a moment to realize it's Maggie who asks, her eyes now gazing straight into John's.

The room temperature seems to drop a few degrees. John shivers helplessly because of the frostiness that wraps around him without warning. It's all over his body and deep in his veins. But when John turns toward Carter, she seems unaware of the change.

"Ugh, Mag..." Susan pleads.

John offers friendly, "You can call me John. I came with Detective Carter to visit your sister."

"Uhm, so you don't know yet." Maggie drops her gaze.

Embarrassed by Maggie's act, Susan apologizes before John can ask further. Afterward, she keeps bringing more snacks and food from the kitchen until Carter puts a firm hand on her knee.

"It's really okay, Susan."

After Carter manages to make Susan sit down and start a proper conversation, they learn what happened. Last night, Susan was watching TV when the doorbell rang. She didn't get visitors often, so, at first, she thought it was her ex-husband. When Susan opened the door, her heart shaky, however, it was Maggie who stood there, looking up to Susan with damp eyes like a baby deer.

Initially, Susan thought it was one of those dreams she'd had in the past years, those dreams that always left her weeping at night. But then, Maggie opened her mouth. "Susan," she called her name, not even bothered by their unreal age difference, "I'm hungry."

"And at that moment I thought... if it was a dream I'd never want to wake up. I'd keep sleeping until my death. But," Susan says, "thank you for coming, Detective. I don't know how this is even possible, but since you're here, maybe I'm not actually crazy."

Carter reassures Susan by telling her there are other similar cases all over the city. People who once were lost showing up again all of a sudden as if they never ever left. John knows that Carter kindly skips the word "dead" for all the clues they've gathered lead to one merciless conclusion; that Maggie already died at age 13.

John knows how awful it must feel for Susan. She probably has examined that day, picking out and breaking apart every single moment, challenging herself over and over of how she could've done differently to not lose Maggie's hand in the crowd. The taste of guilt. The merciless torture of hope when she still needed something to hold onto before it eventually destroyed her. Just like when John was bleeding out on a bus heading to New Rochelle, focusing on one belief that there was still someone needed him, waited for him. Just like when John forced himself to keep moving until he found the road that led to the man who gave John a second life.

At the end of their conversation, Carter reminds Susan to take Maggie to a hospital for a physical examination. So far no one figures out what's going on in the city, but before the government can announce something, people still have to live their lives in the middle of the chaos, and the uniformed police and medical staff are trying to help the best they can.

"Just to make sure Maggie is physically okay. And when you feel both of you are ready, drop in the precinct and build a file for Maggie, okay?  If you need anything, Susan, you know you can always give me a call."

Saying goodbye to Wilson sisters, John and Carter keep walking in silence awhile before Carter says, "I used to not believe in those things, you know."

"Things like what?"

"Supernatural stuff. Miracles." Carter stops at the road and turns to face John. "But if those things really exist, I hope they can have this second chance. Susan was a bit restless today, but it was also the first time in years I saw her this... full of life. Perhaps, everyone has one or two ghosts they wish to see again."

"Is that what Maggie is now?" John doesn't notice how hoarse his voice is until he speaks the question out. "A ghost?"

"No. I think she's the most real person in Susan's life at the moment."

John Reese is a man who has a lot of ghosts in his life. He lived with them for too long that sometimes he thinks he's one of them. Almost no one in this city knows about his existence. No one cares about his real name. But the anonymity wears differently on him now—not the dark shade he used to dress when killing people—he and Finch now use it to help save lives. He already has more than he could have hoped for. If there were no one in this world wanted to see him again after he died, John thinks it's fine.

Before they part ways, Carter says, sincerely, "I'm glad he made it, John."

"What do you mean?"

"To stop you from heading to your death on the roof. So stubborn." Carter is still dejected by the argument John had made, that since she had Taylor to look after while John had no one, it was more reasonable to sacrifice only John's life to keep the rest of the world unharmed. "It took another idiot as stubborn as you to pull you back from being suicidal, didn't it?"

"I'm sorry, Joss." John apologizes for hurting a dear friend's feelings, though he can't guarantee that it won't happen again. His smile must look terrible.

"For the record, I still hope you won't break any further laws in this city." She smiles back. "But it's good to have you back here. Both of you."

While watching Carter leaving, John ponders the thing that has recently dropped into his life without warning. About how it's exploded and exposed everything underneath. About how, as the aftermath, everything looks so different now.

"Do you believe in miracles, Finch?" As the static on the other end seems to last eternally, John tries to steady his breathing, and he waits.

Finally, Finch's voice comes in, distant. "I don't believe in ghosts, Mr. Reese."

"That's not what I asked." John would be lying if he said he wasn't discouraged. But he doesn't push. If Finch needs more time to contemplate everything—Finch always likes to take everything into consideration—John will give him all the time he has without a second thought. "And I thought we're both ghosts in some sense."

Finch lets out a laugh, softly, and John can picture the corner of his lips curving up. "I didn't mean it in a metaphorical sense."

John smiles to himself before directing the conversation back to the case. "I saw Maggie. Seems to be as alive as all of us, except she's still at the same age when she went missing. You got to admit it looks like something supernatural. If you believed that sort of thing."

"Or a miracle. If you prefer to call it that," Finch says, and then after a thoughtful pause, he asks, cautiously as if he's walking on the edge, "Do you, Mr. Reese? Do you believe in miracles?"

_Breath caught, John is suddenly back to the roof. The night wind roars, his heartbeat racing, Harold's eyes swollen and reddish, gazing into John's, determined._

_I told you to stay clear. But of course, Harold wouldn't listen._

"listen? ... believe in miracles,"

_...not leaving you here, John._

"John?" Harold is repeating his question, his voice raised.

"You know I do," John blurts out, eagerly, desperate.

John believes. He knew it existed when the night wind gusting against their bodies and their time was counting down; when Finch left on John's chest permanently his fingerprints and made it happened.

They're both still breathing because of a miracle made happened by Harold Finch.

John wishes he could be better at words to show Harold what he'd seen.


	3. Chapter 3

A few days later, when John stops by the 8th precinct to turn over a perpetrator to Carter, he finds the long queues of people waiting to build a file for dead people who returned are all gone. Compared to that, the ordinary small office cramped with cabinets and desks now seems light and well-ventilated. Some uniformed police sit at their desks, tired to the bone.

Curious but also concerned, John asks, "How's the Returning going?"

Everyone calls the incident the Returning now after some most-viewed talk show's host first applied the phrase in her show. Returning, meaning dead people are coming back to life, back to the side of their families, lovers, and friends.

Carter eyes him, hinting him to go into the interrogation room before they continue the conversation. His frequent presence in the precinct is getting on her nerves.

After closing the door halfway, Carter says, "What I know is one day the FBI came through the door and announced it was their case now." She shrugs. "They believed the incident was caused by the alien object falling in the city, along with the energy it carried. It's a frontier subject and they have the scientists, also, since we'd already collected enough files for them to build up a structure, they took all the files with them. Why do you ask?"

"The eagerness to learn?" John tries. Cater rolls her eyes in return.

John leaves the precinct and heads back to the library.

Due to the incident, Finch now has to narrow down a long list the Machine sends to a degree before he and John can start their usual investigation. He tries to speed up the process by occupying every hour that they're not working on a number to set up criteria, pick up some numbers, and then invalidate the process he's made and go back to step one, for fear of leaving out anyone from the safety net if he settles with a biased sorting system.

John knows how the uncertainty makes Finch anxious. He rests less. Initiates conversations less. He didn't finish his green tea last morning; it had grown cold and bitter when John got back by the evening.

Aiming to ease the tension that had heaped on Finch's shoulder and muffled the library's main room, John tries to start a conversation by saying, "The thing you're building... It's like another Machine," thinking maybe a brief chat could distract Finch from his work for a short time and let him get some rest.

"A suitable parallel, Mr. Reese..." Finch said with his eyes glued to the monitor, barely moved, his body bent into a position that was certainly causing him pain. "...except that I don't have even half as much time."

Had this happened, say, a few weeks ago, John would've just walked directly to Finch and coaxed him to take a break. A takeout choice that Finch never refused. A short walk with Bear around the neighborhood. Or John would've just offered a hand on the back of Finch's shoulder, and squeezed gently, letting him know it was okay to relax for a moment, to let go. They got each other as a team.

The recent shift in their relationship, along with the lately revealed but undefined nature of it, however, made it harder to do so. Those options didn't change, but John did. Finch did. They were never the same, coming down that building. Their relationship was never the same, whether they chose to look into what was underneath the debris after the explosion, or to turn away from it, to let it form a hard wall between them.

While Finch threw himself into the task, John did his own research by reading all those articles about dead people coming back to life. There was a daughter finally met her mother who died from giving birth to her. There was a boy who committed suicide who appeared at his own funeral, and while the classmates who once bullied him were all terrified, another boy came to him to hold his hand, crying because he'd been too afraid to stand up for him when he still had a chance.

New York City currently becomes a very crowded place, but not in its usual sense. It's now full of unfinished stories longing for one more chance. Because if the universe somehow decides to do this, dragging the dead all the way back to this world, it has to mean something.

John is now across the street of the library. His phone buzzes.

"Hi, Lionel," John answers the phone, "I was wondering why you weren't in the precinct. Working part-time?"

"Funny." Fusco isn't in the mood for bantering. "I was doing the part-time job you handed over. Listen, wonder-boy, don't jump up yet before I finish this: I was checking in the kid, Darren McGrady, and his foster family said he hasn't come home since Wednesday. They're worried about him. They haven't called the police or reported to the institution because they fear it might cause Darren into trouble. But they're also worried maybe he  _is_  in trouble and needs help, and they really should call the police to help him."

Wednesday. It was two days ago. "Have you checked the art school? The comic book shop?"

"Of course. I was hoping you could tell me somewhere else he might go, that I don't know. That kid trusts you. Maybe he mentioned once or twice when he hired you?" Fusco snaps.

John knows Fusco is worried about Darren, and he doesn't want Darren to lose his current foster family, either. "Leave it to me," John says, "You tell his family to try holding back for one more day. I'll make sure he be home safe soon."

By instinct, John goes to the old apartment and finds it hasn't been rented out. Getting in the building, John walks down the dim, dusty corridor. There's light coming through the door gap. He turns the doorknob to enter.

"Hello, Darren." John takes the handgun from Darren in a smooth manner. "Where did you get this? You might hurt someone or yourself by accident. It's confiscated."

"Hey!" The teenage boy standing beside Darren shouts. If John recalls it right, his name is Travis. Darren's older brother, who got murdered when John and Darren first met.

"It's okay, Travis, Reese is a friend." Darren stops Travis from rushing forward for the gun. "He helped me to bring your murderers to justice." Then, he turns to John, one hand stretching out. "You can't take that away. How can we protect ourselves if someone is coming for trouble?"

"You shouldn't have to protect yourselves with a gun in the first place," John answers, then, in a softer voice he asks, "Mind if I ask what happened? You skipped classes. You haven't come home for two days. Your family is worried that you might be in some trouble."

"I'm not in trouble!" Darren argues, with stubbornness mixed with a hint of regret written on his face.

"I know you're not. But you might need some help. And remember? I'm still on the clock." John then motions them to sit down. The two brothers sit on the second-handed sofa, at a loss as if being given a map without directions. "Take your time," John prompts.

After gathering thoughts awhile, Darren opens his mouth. "Remember when you drove me to the foster family and I asked you what if I didn't like them?"

"Yes."

"They're alright. I know they care about me. But here," Darren emphasizes, "is my home. Even when there were just Travis and me living here. I don't know why but I don't want other people to take away this place. Sometimes I come here after school to see if it's still empty... But when I came here on Wednesday, it wasn't. Travis was here."

Travis's face is shadowy and unreadable in the dark room.

"I know he's dead," Darren says in a neutral tone, but rather more defensive than normal like he's mentally prepared for being questioned by others.

John's been reading those articles and knows lots of people tended to avoid the "dead" word, but Darren speaks it out loud factly, even in front of his brother. But in a way, this is Darren, being raised in a position doesn't allow him the luxury to see things through rose-colored glasses or more imaginative ways despite his idealistic and artistic nature. What he's been through often makes children's minds mature too fast for other aspects of growing up to catch up.

Darren continues, "I found Travis shot here in the living room. I called 911. I watched him die because no one came before it was too late to save him. My only family died because no one cared. But now I don't care if he's dead or not. I've missed him. I miss him every day."

"And you don't want to be separated again." John understands. "Travis isn't the only one returning to life. There are other cases all over the city. The news talks about them. People know about the incident. Why not talk to your foster family? Maybe you can figure out a way together."

"I don't want to talk to them!" Darren pouts his lips. "I mean... they're nice... They make me glad that I said yes to stay with them. They're... They're like families." He swallows. "But Travis is my brother, you know? Real families. And he's back. The only one left in this world I have... Talking to them about that makes me feel like a betrayer."

And he can't make himself leave Travis for a new life, either. John understands that.

Travis has remained silent all along.

John puts his arm around Darren's shoulder to reassure. Then, he says, "You don't have to choose between families, Darren. Travis is your brother. Nothing is gonna change that. Your foster families just want to know that you're safe. They’re worrying that you've skipped meals and school. I can ask Detective Fusco to talk to them for you. Do you want that? Maybe they and Travis can meet each other, too."

After an exchange of glances with Travis, Darren nods.

On the way back to the library, John drops by Finch's favorite takeout restaurant. "Still in?" he asks to the other end of the comm. "I'm bringing back Thai food."

"Uhm." Harold's answer comes through, muffled.

So, Harold might still not in the mood for talking, but a person has to eat, John goes over his arguments in mind, then—

"I just realized, Mr. Reese," Harold says, his voice musing, "I never really know much about your childhood life."

So, Harold didn't just keep the comm open. He was listening. This fact causes a warm surge rising from the bottom of John's heart. "Not exactly everything, then?" John teases. Harold certainly knows his foster families' name—Connor. Margaret. Beautiful and sweet Sophie. What he refers to are things that can't be inquired from all files, records, or certificates; such as how they lived together, what they meant to John, and how their existences passed onto him. John says, earnestly, "Really, Harold, you could just ask me."

"I suppose it makes sense," softly, Harold says, "Next time, perhaps."

John chuckles, and then he says, "As for the Returning thing. What to hear my theory?"

"Certainly, I'd love to have your view in this."

"Darren mentioned one thing today. He said he missed Travis."

"Yes, it's understandable. They only had each other after their parents died. And they seem close. How can we stop thinking of someone who'd meant so much to us after they left?"

"So did Susan Wilson. And parents who had lost their child. Widows and widowers who reunited with their dead spouses during the Returning."

"Are you suggesting it's the longing of the living that brings the dead back to life?"

"Possible. That's a pattern shared by every Returning case. At least, we haven't heard of anyone returning to avenge their enemy or murderer. Travis returned to Darren. Maggie returned to Susan," John reasons, "Have you heard what people often say, that we die twice, and while during the first time our physical form deceases, it's the second time that counts—when we're forgotten by the living. Perhaps the Returning works similarly, just in the opposite direction. As long as someone alive still longs to see their loved ones, the dead can be brought back to life."

On the other end, Harold remains silent awhile, and then he says, slightly short of breath, "You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Reese. I have an extremely important phone call to make."


	4. Chapter 4

Harold doesn't even bother to dial the country code when calling Will Ingram on his cell phone. If what John suggested is right, Will must've been already back in the city. It has to be right.

The Returning incident has now become so much more relevant to him personally. Harold not only has an assumption to prove, in his heart, there's also a wish he's praying to come true.

The phone rings for nearly half a minute before it's picked up. On the other end, Will's eager voice comes through without greetings. "Uncle Harold! You wouldn't believe what just happened!"

"Where's your father, Will?" Harold blurts out at the same time.

So now, Harold heads towards the address Will told him.

The last time Harold visited there, Will had sorted through boxes of Nathan's belongings, so keen to know more about his dead father. After his asking questions about the Machine, however, Harold was at conflict. The secret he and Nathan had once planned to keep from the world was now left in his hands to guard, and Will was also someone he needed to look after for Nathan. Harold couldn't let either Nathan's only child or the Machine be put in danger, so when Will talked about his decision of selling the loft, he considered to passively encourage it.

What Alicia Corwin told Will upset him. The father he'd always been looking up to was just an ordinary person, who was gone, forever, and Will would never get any chance to know him better since he'd been too occupied with work when alive and died tragically too soon. Even the work Nathan had been devoted to, the one clue that Will grabbed onto in the hope of seeing even just a glance of his father's proudest creation, turned out to be mediocre.

Before signing the contract with the real estate agent, though, Will went through the things Nathan had kept all over again—half of those were Will's stuff: projects, awards, and reports from school. Will called Harold the other morning and said he'd changed his mind. It didn't matter what Nathan's secret project was, nor how successful Nathan was as an inventor or a businessperson, Will's father had loved his son in his own way even when he hadn't had the time to accompany him. Thinking about it. Will just couldn't hate the empty loft Nathan had been living alone after the divorce anymore.

Harold told himself it was harmless for Will to keep those memories. Will and his father had already shared so few together. It was a risk Harold was able and willing to take.

And now, Harold limps towards the loft's entry. He presses the bell and then waits, panting, his heart in the throat.

It's Nathan who opens the door, a broad smile on his face.

"It's good to see you again, my friend." Nathan's warm voice welcomes him, and Harold gives up on fighting back the tears. They hug each other for a long while on the doorstep until Will comes to hug them both and suggests all three of them should get in the living room to sit down and talk.

"I thought you wouldn't be back until late summer," Harold asks Will, who told him the planned schedule the last time they talked.

"Yeah. My teammate was supposed to take care of some stuff back here in the office, but he was suddenly ill, so I filled in his job. I planned to stay here while in New York-" Will glances at his father with a shy smile. "-to get closer to dad. And when I entered the living room—"

"I was here on the sofa," Nathan says, lifting his glass of scotch smilingly.

"Just this very spot," Will adds, his eyes shining brightly.

"Did you know... how did you get here, Nathan?" Harold asks, still thrilled by the unthinkable situation that he and Nathan reunited and even are talking with each other right now after what had happened in the ferry.

Nathan shakes his head. "I have no idea. I only felt that I was here the moment Will entered the door. I heard the sound of the door opening. I felt the weight of the glass in my hand, the aroma coming from the inside of it, how the back of the sofa was supporting my tired lower back. But everything before that moment was just... pitch dark. Not only without visual but all sensory input. I can't recall any of it."

"I checked," Will says, "All the vital signs function extremely well like nothing ever happened. At first, I thought I was dreaming, but I wasn't. And from all the media talking about the most heated event, dad isn't the only case in this city. How's this possible?"

"There are hundreds of similar cases appearing just these two days, and I believe the number of it is still growing," Harold explains, his heart full, seeing the father and the son sitting side by side. "Some call it a miracle, that people have been returning to their loved ones."

"I'm so glad I was back to fill in my teammate's job." Will smiles, and then he turns to Harold and asks, "Uncle Harold, you already knew dad was back when you called me, right? How?"

Harold always knows Will is outstanding not only in his cleverness but also in this—curiosity.

"I work in insurance, so naturally, this event is the sort of things I keep track on. One of my colleagues came up with this theory that people are returning to those who have been longing to see them again. Friends. Lovers. Families," Harold says softly, "I know how much you look up to your father and were always wanting to know him better."

They keep chatting for some more about Will's job in MSF before Will has to leave to attend a Skype com-call in the next room.

Then, a short silence falls between the two best friends.

"I believe I owe you an apology, Nathan."

"For what?" Nathan asks genuinely.

Not particularly a thing, but also everything, Harold supposes. He doesn't say that. Instead, he says, "Last year, Will found the cork and the note you wrote—Day one: the Machine, February 24, 2005. He also found Alicia Corwin and met with her, wanting to know the one-dollar deal we made with the government."

"Did he find out?" Nathan leans forward, full of concern.

"No. Don't worry. Ms. Corwin told him a lie that shut down his investigation. But there was something they said... Crushed by the Machine." Harold swallows. "Will thought it was a metaphor, but to someone like Corwin—like us—we know it was true, in a way. It was my fault, Nathan. If I had done any differently... If I never—"

"We decided to build the Machine together, Harold, don't you forget that." Nathan cuts off Harold's words firmly. "We both knew what kind of deal it would be. We decided to deal with the government for what we believed was right. It wasn't all on you. And you did try to help me, remember? I didn't listen because I was too frustrated, knowing that we could've helped more people. A peek into hope makes us all desperate, I guess. But I mean what I meant when I said it's good to see you again, Harold. I'm glad that you survived."

"No, Nathan," Harold says unhappily, "If I'd listened to you about the list... We could've come up with something. I was paralyzed by the fear of your pushing yourself into danger and failed to see what you cared about so deeply. My poor reaction only made the situation worse, I believe. And you were right, Nathan, everyone is relevant to someone. It cost me my best friend to make me admit that. That's too much."

"Maybe you should've listened to me, Harold," Nathan says, his voice mild, "Or maybe, I should've listened to you. Either way, we would've worked out a way to deal with it had we worked together. I conclude what we both agree here."

"Well, yes." The corners of Harold's lips lift up. "You've got the point."

Nathan drinks up the scotch. After staring at the empty glass for a while, he asks, "How's the wedding? You and Grace?"

"No." Harold shakes his head in dismay. "Grace thought I was dead."

Nathan lifts his head in disbelief. "Why? You did that to protect her?"

So Harold mentions briefly what happened that day. The government agents chasing to the ferry to tie loose ends. Grace crying and holding the Sense and Sensibility novel. Harold Martin's funeral that no one other than Grace attended.

"And you were right, Nathan" Harold admits, "I've run away from my past for too long. How could I even dream of having a conventional relationship with anyone when I don't even dare to tell them who I am? It was a mistake that I'd selfishly and naively made."

"I'm sorry to hear, Harold." Nathan gives him a comforting smile.

Harold’s eyes cast down. They sit there in silence for a short moment.

"So," Nathan tries to change the subject, applying one of his distinctive annoying voice, "You mentioned a colleague of yours?"

"Yes?"

"Come on, you didn't really socialize with people in your insurance company, or IFT, or any other company for that matter. Not unless absolutely necessary. And even when it was, you asked me to do it for you, so... Who's this person? Did you just make up one imaginary friend or did you for once seriously make friends other than me?" Nathan teases.

Harold gives him a your-words-are-not-even-worth-my-rolling-eyes look that Nathan is familiar with. He knows that Nathan isn't jealous that he has friends other than him. He's more annoying than that. But this is also a chance for Harold to bring up a thing he's wanted to tell Nathan since he entered the door.

"Actually, Nathan, I give myself a new job." Harold never dreamt of having a chance to tell Nathan this in person. "I'm helping the numbers now."

"The irrelevant numbers? You keep the list?" Nathan's face all lightened up, and Harold can't help smiling with him. "How do you do it? With the colleague you mentioned? Now, tell me everything!"

"Okay calm down, Nathan. I think it'll be better to just show you."

"What?" Nathan asks, grinning.

"Our little operation..." Harold says, contented by the sight of Nathan crooking his eyebrow, "...in the library."

"The library? No way! I have to see it, now!"

On their way to the library, Harold calls John to update him on the situation.

"Hey, Finch. How's your mysterious call going?"

"It proved that you're right about the theory, Mr. Reese. Are you and Bear still in the library? I'm heading back with a friend."

"A friend," John repeats for emphasizing, his voice teasing. "I thought you were a very private person and no one should know about the location of the HQ. Why is this friend so special? Who is this friend anyway?"

Harold mentally asks himself that why do John and Nathan have to share this thing in common before saying: "He's indeed different, Mr. Reese. You could say the library wouldn't be our HQ without him in the first place. Nathan Ingram. But you must have already heard about him, I presume?" Harold says dryly.

The moment Harold and Nathan get in, Bear stands up from his dog bed and rushes to greet them. After running a few circles around them, Bear seems to decide that Nathan is part of his pack now, sitting beside Nathan's leg, his tail tapping the floor and his ears standing up in excitement.

After introducing Nathan and John to each other, Harold steps back to watch Nathan wandering around in the library. The sight almost makes him tear up again. The last time he and Nathan were both here, they fought over a thing that seemed impossible to resolve between them, without knowing their lives and friendship were all going to change in the following few days. And that'd be the last time they talked properly.

John and Nathan connect with one another faster than expected. It looks as if they'd known each other for years. Nathan shares those few times when he tried to help numbers and asks John how he usually operates in the field, how he and Harold work together as a team, and where did Bear come into the picture.

Sensing people are talking about him, Bear walks near to get attention. To let John and Nathan talk properly, Harold calls for Bear and then pats him thoroughly. Harold is aware that Nathan keeps watching him. He can almost hear Nathan asking him how come he keeps a dog now. He never was a pet person.

Well, to be fair, Harold argues in mind. Bear is John's dog.

And Harold can sense Nathan's gaze moving between him and John, too. He supposes it's just Nathan's curiosity for Harold making new friends, nothing else. Harold is sure since the moment he and Nathan entered the library, he hasn't done anything that might show his feelings towards John. He's been guarding it well these days, he supposes. So, he isn't sure what is Nathan finds interesting between them.

"So, you were the one who saved the irrelevant list in the first place?" John asks.

"The man himself." Nathan nods.

John's glance moves to Harold—the way he looks, so fondly it hurts. For a short moment, Harold thinks John is going to say something to him, but then, John looks back at Nathan and says, "Thank you, Nathan."

"For what?"

"For someone who was in need of help could be found and saved."

"Well," Nathan smiles, "Harold said you're the one come up with the theory, that people return to those who miss them? It's impressive."

"It's just a wild guess." John shrugs.

"I think it makes sense," Nathan straightens up from the seat, wanting to share his view in this, "Many people think ghosts linger everywhere without directions, but it's wrong. Ghosts are more honest to ourselves than humans are, drawn to where we feel someone still miss us, think of us often. That kind of energy keeps a place in this world for us to go back to..."

Nathan's words remind Harold painfully of the fact that, even though he is sitting right here having a conversation with them, his death still took place years ago, and it isn't really undone just due to the recent event.

John is now frowning, and before Harold can ask anything, Nathan concludes: "I'm just happy to see Will, you, my friend and have this chance to meet John. If people decide to call this event a miracle, I think it really is. You'd be surprised how powerful love is. If you really love someone, you love for them can always bring them back—"

John stands up from the seat, his face ashen as if he's hit on the gut.

"What happened, John? Are you unwell?" Harold also stands up and asks. He subconsciously moves forwards to John, trying to put a hand on his forehead to check what's wrong.

But John jumps a few steps backward as if he fears Harold's touch, shaking his head slightly, seemed lost in a shock.

"I'm sorry, I..." John says, and then he rushes out of the library.


	5. Chapter 5

Days later, Harold finds John sitting alone in a car parked alongside the road in New Rochelle.

Harold knows where John might go to the moment he ran off the library, and he's been following his track since then, but he gives John enough time to be alone. Until John's GPS location stops moving anymore in a cold night. It stops at a random spot in New Rochelle. Not near Jessica's house. Nor her mother's. It stops at a nowhere place. The red dot on the monitor looks lonely, trapped.

The night is getting chilly and hazy, and Harold leaves the library.

When Harold opens the door on the passenger side, however, John isn't surprised. He doesn't even look at him. Harold gets into the car. John doesn't say a word, so Harold sits with him in silence.

John does nothing but lets his body sit there, withdrawn, shrunk into his coat, his spine curved listlessly.

Harold doesn't start any conversation. He drinks the sorrows soaking through the car, hoping there's anything he can do to help reduce it even just a little, knowing there's nothing he can do, actually, except show up, get wet with him. Because, with grief, there's nothing you can do.

After what seems like a lifetime of silence, John opens his mouth. "How many people have returned, Finch?" he asks, voice thick, "I know you keep tracks on the stats so tell me. How many?"

"There must be some other factors that we overlooked, John," Harold tries. So far, no one can confidently claim that they know what's going on in the Returning. It's unwise to trap oneself in a conclusion that might be wrong. And Harold doesn't like the conclusion John has in mind, how he blames himself because of it.

Yet, John shakes his head. "There's not just one miracle. Or a few of them. There are hundreds of hundreds, so many that it's hard for us to help all of the numbers. You know that as well as I do, Finch. Then, why?"

John asks as if Harold holds the answer. As if a word from him can make everything change its appearance. What Harold can give him, however, is honesty. "I don't know."

"Everyone has someone wishing to see them again. The love and promise between people are so powerful it can bring people back from death. That's what Carter said. That's what Nathan said, has experienced, too, and I..." His voice chokes. "Why didn't she deserve a second chance?"

"We'll figure this out, I promise. There must be some way we can help her, John." Harold swallows, his gaze falling on John's hand dropping in the space between them. For Harold, John's hands always embody the perfect balance of strength and kindness—how they make possible John's will and intention to protect and care about people. But now, it looks like they’re disappearing into the dark space.

Unable to endure any further, Harold reaches out to take John's hand. He has to lean toward John and extends his hand to reach it due to their height difference. Not a perfectly comfortable position for him. Harold doesn't care about that, really.

John flinches under his touch, Harold's heartbeat rising, but John doesn't draw back his hand.

"It's not your fault."

"You don't know that."

Actually, Harold knows. Guilt is a little parasite that feeds on your life. It eats you up from the inside. Harold knows how it feels to live with it. The longer you live, the stronger it grows. The only ending seems to be the end of your time.

Still, Harold doesn't want John to live like that—full of grief, and regret—and even though there's nothing Harold can do to change how John feels in this, he doesn't want to leave him alone with those feelings in the dark.

I'll fix this, I promise, Harold pledges in mind, I'll find out why and give the real answer back to you.

Because that's what he promised John, at the first time they appropriately met, that he'd never lie to him.

That he'll always give him the truth.

 

***

 

John has always known that he is a bit broken. He doesn't foresee that he is actually irreparable.

After rushing out of the library, John drives for days to the quiet bar in his hometown where both he and Jessica had secretly classified as their favorite place to recover from the daily life when they'd been younger—a lovely coincidence they only discovered after they started dating. But among all those faces in the now noisy, crowded bar, he can't find hers. John lingers around the corner near Sharon's house and waits for hours, seeing no sign of Jessica returning back there, either. John is loath to visit that place again, but he goes to the house where he'd almost killed a man, only to find it's abandoned even by all the ghosts.

Eventually, John parks the car along the road, staring blankly ahead. There's no point in going anywhere now. In no directions will he meet her again since the universe has decided to leave him out of the Returning permission list. He'd rather just sit here.

The night is getting freezing. John ignores the numbness of his fingers. He ignores the white fog condensing in the air when he breathes out. He sinks into his coat, letting himself to be enveloped by the dark fabric. A weird thought emerges from inside him. He becomes smaller, and then even smaller, and then he disappears from this world. He's just a disjointed part of it. It doesn't need him, and he's falling from it.

If Jessica had been loved by some other man from the very beginning, John presumes, perhaps everything would be different now.

In the possible world A. She might still be alive.

In the possible world B. She might be able to come back, to the one who loves her the way she deserves.

John loved Jessica, deeply, with all his existence in his first lifetime. She's always been in his thoughts. His love for her, however, isn't enough to bring her back. He's too broken and beyond repair. He isn't allowed even a miracle. As a result, he failed her, and more than once.

All John ever wants is to be useful so that the one he loves can be protected, taken care of, live in the happiness they deserve. He never realizes that it isn't about how he does those things. It's about what he is, and what he is makes him incapable of love.

Seeing how happy Harold is reuniting with his best friend, who he tragically lost because he created the Machine with good intentions, John knows Harold deserves a much better life than this.

Weeks ago, when John was hit by the epiphany about his feeling for Finch—a moment he almost saw the same shock and delight in those eyes staring back—he thought he, at last, arrived somewhere. He thought he didn't need to drift in this vast and merciless world anymore.

John knew this, and what he could have, wasn't a conventional life. What he longed for, however, wasn't a conventional life. He had only even wanted a home. He wanted to stay with those he loved, vowed to protect and look after without being taken apart by fate again.

As long as he got to spend the rest of his life like this by Finch's side, John was content. Even if what John believed he'd seen at the roof was just his illusion. Even if Finch simply changed his mind. Even if they never talked about it. John could be satisfied. After all, John was always very adaptive with what life decided to give him.

Now? John realizes it's a bad idea.

He once thought he could be fixed, while in reality, he is irreparable. He'll only fail everyone he loves.

And now he's experienced this anguish, John can't help recalling that too big house and the sad smile on Grace's face. That was the face of someone who truly loved the one they lost, and if anyone deserves to have their loved one back at their side again, it is her.

Yet, Finch finds him. John never doubts that he will. Finch always knows everything. Where John will go. When to step into John's life. What to say—or just saying nothing—to John.

John isn't sure why Finch still bothers. Why he came all this way to him in this freezing night. Just like the last time when John specifically told him to stay clear, but he didn't listen.

Finch sits with him in his self-loathing pit, offering his empathy and acceptance. The night reaches its thickest moment. There's no darkness darker than this moment, and Finch's presence beside him is too painful for John to endure. He wants to flee.

But then, Finch takes John's hand in his. John shivers under the warm, soft skin.

The sensation vividly brings John back to that night, when he helped Finch to climb down from the roof, all 21 floors, and Finch kept stumbling. John firstly offered his arm and later decided to hold Finch's hand, waiting a few stairs below for him to step down one stair at a time steadily. Despite the presumably long hours Finch must have spent on typing, his palm was unexpectedly soft and tender under John's hold.

And now, Harold holds his hand with a determination so immense it leaves John shaking uncontrollably. John can't make himself break the touch, the connection between them. No matter how many times he tells himself in his mind that he doesn't deserve it. That it's better to leave his loved one alone before John's curse affects him.

John can't make himself to let go.

John has always wanted to be useful to his loved ones so that they won't be separated by fate, and he is getting used to being abandoned when he isn't enough.

But deep down, John also knows the truth behind everything he'd ever done in life. The truth that probably no one ever knows. The truth that even John is hiding from himself—

_At once, John is at an airport, John is making his first triple homicide somewhere away from home, John is heading to a bridge, John is bleeding out coming down a parking structure, John is standing in the ruthless wind at the top of a building with his time ticking away..._

John knows. The thing he's always wanted. What he's always only wished for

—Is to be found.


	6. Chapter 6

John has been avoiding Finch in person for two weeks after his abrupt disappearance. Although, John wonders whether did it count as a disappearance if Finch had anticipated his whereabouts all the time and John, on the other hand, had known that Finch would find him from the start and let it happen anyway.

Regardless, now that John realized he is too broken to give love and be loved, he throws the wish of hoping Finch might one day return his feelings out of the window. Giving up, however, is easier said than done, so John tries to stay away from Finch until he can figure out a way to ease the ache in his chest when they're too physically close.

Finch would probably appreciate this, John thinks, since all he's done after they defused the bomb at the roof was to maintain a professional distance; it was John who kept testing the water, and now he can see why he shouldn't continue anymore.

The line between them is still kept open, John can't bring himself to turn it off for some reason hard to explain. It's all for the job; so that Finch can always reach him when there are numbers, he tells himself that, listening to the conversation Harold and Nathan are having while doing numbers' background check in the library. They'll sort out some of the numbers first, and John is more than happy to run all over the city to figure out which ones are more in need of their help. Every morning he skips his usual tour to the library, just heading straight out into the field. He tells himself it's all for the job because he's more useful there. Every night John welcomes the soreness of his body that knocks him out the moment he touches the bed, letting it turn off the light inside him at once.

But Finch doesn't seem to be happy about it. He sounds more and more annoyed each time he calls.

"Since now seems to be one of those few chances I can speak to you, Mr. Reese." They are closing a case, and Finch brings it up. He's prepared, his disapproval leaking through his tone, "Bear is eating less these days. Dr. Jenson suggested that he might be suffering from a lack of attention—"

"What are you suggesting, Finch?" John asks pointedly. He does feel guilty, but Finch will be better protected if Bear is with him. "That I neglect my job, my duties—"

"That's not what I wanted to say, John," Finch cuts him off. He says John's name in a low, frustrated voice, and John's heart drops along with it. "Sorry. Allow me to put it this way. I do not intend to pry by wildly guessing what caused your… change in behavior. I just hope that, if you want to talk, I—"

"I'm fine, Finch. It's just a more efficient way to do the job. No need to worry. I'll take care of it."

Finch pauses for a long time before he speaks out again, "It's not the job I'm talking about."

John exhales silently and waits for Finch to realize that it’s the end of their conversation.

Despite his fatigue, John tosses and turns and eventually doesn't get much sleep that night. Finch almost sounded as if he was worried about John, but he shouldn't be. And John hopes Finch stop saying things to him like that; it hurts as much as broken ribs.

 

***

 

The next morning, Finch's voice raises in John's ear, calm and aloof. Whatever hiding in his tone the night before has gone without a trace. "We sorted out a number, Mr. Reese."

"A number?" It's been a long while since the last time they received only one number, due to the recent incident.

"Yes. And this one also seems to be far less complicated than our previous numbers. Lou Mitchell. A retired watch repairman. A widower with no children. His wife Marilyn died of cancer six months ago," Finch informs, "Lou is still alive, no death certificate, so I reckon he's just our usual irrelevant."

Lou has buried himself in the Venus Casino for months, using his clever hands that once repaired watches on burning through cash he doesn't have. He's pawned off all valuables: watch, wedding ring.

"Maybe he's doing this out of grief," John says out of instinct. As far as they know, Marilyn didn't come back to Lou. "You said he withdrew almost all their money trying to cure his wife."

The silence on the other end of the phone sinks between them like a stone.

After some further investigation, however, they find out Lou has accrued more debt than someone lives on a fixed income can do. John starts to think the truth behind Lou's behavior isn't grief. Finch suggests the theory that Lou probably borrows money from his old gambling pals, while John bets on Lou being the mobster himself. Just before John is about to visit some notable lowlifes in Jersey for intelligence, Finch says he'll keep an eye on Lou.

"Finch, wait." John's stomach turns at the thought. "If he's dangerous..." The distance separating him from Finch now suddenly feels wrong and alarming.

"I refuse to believe that that old man is capable of hurting anybody," Finch argues, "and since there's not much about Lou can be found online, I believe it's reasonable for me to share some field work this time." After a short pause, Finch breathes out. "It's just a more efficient way to do this job."

Later the day, some lowlifes in Jersey get beaten really hard by a tall, mysterious man in a suit.

It turns out John's initial judgment about Lou is wrong. Lou had quit gambling after meeting Marilyn, and they'd led a fulfilling life until Marilyn was diagnosed with cancer. In desperate need of money, Lou went back to the casino, but money couldn't buy them more time when their time had already run out. A few days after Marilyn passed away, the owner of Venus Casino got his hands on a list of card sharps. He found Lou, asked him to pay the money back, and when Lou couldn't, he forced Lou to launder money for him.

Standing by the road, John waits while listening to Harold's and Lou's conversation in a car. He realized that the truth behind Lou's behavior isn't grief. He is just an old man who tried his best to help his loved one but failed, and has been trapped in his own decision ever since.

Harold suggests Lou leave the city, promising that he and John will take care of the rest. But Lou gets emotional while he refuses, saying that he won't leave Marilyn behind. They were planning to be buried side by side. Even death won't be able to separate them.

"Speaking of that," cautiously, Harold touches on the subject impossible to be overlooked in Lou's case, "you might be aware of the recent event of people returning. Do you ever think—"

"I'll tell you the truth. I was disappointed," Lou says, with a surprising light tone, "There's nothing I want more than to see my Marilyn again. Tell her how much I miss her every single day. But then, maybe it's better this way. What would my Marilyn say, seeing me back in the casino again, laundering money for those people?"

"I think she'd understand," Harold says gently, "You did it with good intention. You were trying to help her, Lou. Let us help you this time. We'll sort it out. I-" Harold pauses, and reflectively John lifts his head in attention like how he always did whenever Harold made a short break before something important. "-I will fix it. Can you give me a little bit of time and trust?"

When Finch joins him and Leon for their plan the next day, however, Lou surprises them by walking in the Venus Casino with cheerful whistling. Lou says he doesn't want to run away like a coward. He wants to win his money back in his way. He's so determined that, in the end, John and Harold decide to help him.

Their plan almost succeeds, but just when John is guarding Lou as he leaves the casino, Finch is caught. John's blood freezes hearing the news, light-headed. He then endures the feeling of how his vein burns while mentally searching for a way to get everyone out—until the barrel is moved to Finch. John kicks the table to make Makris drop the revolver. He smashes the chair confining him. He throws himself in front of Finch before Makris can pick up the gun again. The best thing about Russian roulette? There's only one bullet.

The gun clicks.

John turns to see Lou showing off with the bullet in his hand.

"See, just need a bit more time and trust," Lou says, giggling, before he punches Makris on the face.

 

***

 

Case closed, everyone is safe, John avoids meeting eyes with Finch when he says there are a few loose ends he has to tie up before leaving. He keeps the comm open, still, and when he hears Finch having a conversation with Lou in the diner, he lets himself bask in his voice, warm, steady, sophisticated and full of light. Finch is safe and sound, and that's important because it means John is still good at his job.

The reason why Lou buried himself at the casino to win money is that he wants to keep the diner alive. The truth behind Lou's behavior is all the memories he and Marilyn had created together at a place like their home.

"Why doesn't it trouble you?" Finch asks softly, "You and Marilyn could've sat at this very booth, like the old days."

"I know what you're thinking," Lou answers, not slightly minded, "It doesn't bother me. Marilyn would laugh if she knew I was upset because she didn't return. Like what she said before she left, there's a time for everything, but we'd made the most of it out of every moment we'd shared. There was nothing unsaid or undone between us. As long as I still have this," Lou gestures at the diner, "and my memories with her. I have no regrets."

John smiles when he hears Finch asking Lou to repair the watch, his chest warm. Finch certainly has his ways to help people, offering them what they need the most in exchange of what they do the best.

And then, Lou says, with sympathy, "You know, your wife, the one you lost. She lost a good man. She's smiling down on you right now."

On the other end of the com is static, John's heart sinks. How could he not think of it? John questions himself. Or rather, he just has been too selfish and refused to look the truth in its face.

"Wait. You mean she's not dead?" Lou guesses the truth. "I thought you were like Marilyn and me... You know, for a genius, you're an idiot."

"It's too late, Lou," Finch says regretfully.

"And you asked me why I'm not upset when people are all looking forward to their loved ones returning? What are you waiting for, Harold? Both of you are still breathing, it's not too late. Life is just a fleeting moment in time. That's what Marilyn would say. If you love someone, tell her and stay with her before your time runs out."

Harold remains silent, but Lou's words have already rooted deeply in John's heart. John feels like a disgraceful thief for stealing so many days that belonged to Grace.

John goes back to the library. For a while, he just tosses a ball for Bear to chase, mentally preparing himself.

Harold is confused at first when he gets back and finds John waiting at the entry, but he doesn't say a word. He looks exhausted. Lonely.

"You alright?" John asks, "I heard what Lou said to you."

"Oh." Harold pauses, in the middle of taking off his coat. "You were listening?"

"Always."

Harold turns, his gaze meeting with John's. For a moment, John swears he sees something flickering in those eyes, but John can't call it by any names. Without any further word, Harold moves away to hang up his coat, his figure thin and fragile surrounded by this library that is too big, too empty, forgotten in the stream of time.

"Lou was right, you know." John inhales, slowly, ignoring the sting piercing through his chest. Harold has been such a good partner, offering John his time, care, and friendship all this time. This is the least John can do in return. And even while John is doing this, he spoils himself by wishing just a little, that maybe he and Harold can still be acquaintances after this. John isn't sure how often a casual lunch would be considered okay. He isn't sure how to come up with an explanation of why Detective Stills knows about Harold. He has to make sure his presence won't cost Harold's and Grace's normal life, but—

"What do you mean?" Harold asks, weakly, face away from him. John almost doesn't catch his words.

"You know this is a chance to go back to her. She must miss you." Now John is grateful that Harold doesn't look at him. He has some trouble breathing. He blinks for a few time, hard, the corner of his eyes stinging. Then, John tries again. "I know how it feels when someone you love didn't return. You both deserve better—"

"John," Harold calls his name, "Do you think it's cruel of me not going back to Grace under this circumstances?"

"That's not what I mean."

"I've made many mistakes, and I intend not to repeat them again. Mend them, if possible." Harold walks near, canceling the distance between them.

Staring into those eyes, John can see Harold's sorrow reflecting his own.

Harold continues, his voice is worn out. "I made a mistake for putting off the chance to tell Grace the truth about me. I kept telling myself there'd be a better time until there was no time at all, while I was just scared of what she'd think of the real me. I made a mistake by keeping Grace in a bubble and lying to myself that I did all this only for her safety, that I wasn't pretending one day, maybe, I could still go back to her. Watching her continuing her daily life gave me an illusion that it was a static drawing. But it isn't. No one’s life is a static drawing. I left her when she needed me, for whatever reasons. I left her to grief. I can’t just go back to her as if there was nothing changed during all this time. And you're right, John, she deserves better. She deserves to know the truth the next time we met, if, we ever had the chance. But not like this. Not when people believe that the dead returning to life is the sole proof of enduring love. It'll cost the life Grace might have. She'll never move on from my past mistakes."

Merely held together, John is overwhelmed by the sudden, uncharacteristic revelation Harold just made. Those raw, unpretty, vulnerable thoughts. Emotions. Secrets more personal, more fragile than a residential address, a name, or a birth date. Harold is giving all these to John. Why?

"And I do know, John, Lou was right about one thing."

"What?" John asks, helplessly.

"That our lives are fleeting. This moment, John, we won't have the same moment again. How we experience it, we won't be able to have it the way we're having, ever again."

"I'm not sure I follow." He must be tired, John thinks, so tired that he's light-headed.

"I intend to cherish the time I'm given with the person I hold dear."

"But you're not going back to Grace?" John hopes Harold stop saying things like this. It hurts.

With a sigh, Harold reaches out to John's arm and gently squeezes as if trying to make John feel better, and then he whispers, "I wasn't talking about her."

John's gaze falls on where Harold touches him. He breathes in, aiming to do it steadily. He breathes out.

"It may not be the best time for this, then," Harold says softly, "It's been a long day, Mr. Reese. Go home and get some rest, please. I hope I'll meet you here tomorrow."

Harold's hand disappears from John's arm, but John can still sense it where they touched for the rest of the day.

Just like that, John thinks he probably misunderstood something.


	7. Chapter 7

Resting her forehead in her palms with her elbows on the desk, Joss Carter lets out a sigh.

This has been the third violent case within 48 hours, and Carter wonders what happened to John and Finch's secret source. It's not like that she is 100% okay with their way of doing things, of course not, but she also observes firsthand that ever since the Man in the Suit showed up in New York City, the crime rate has hugely declined. But now, everything seems to be back to how it was in the past. It's a change she really isn't looking forward to.

Plus, HR has been a pain in the ass. Carter can sense there's undercurrents working beneath the surface, influencing the institution she has been devoted to, wearing it away.

Joss Carter has never been a big fan of bureaucracy, and she is well aware of the fact that there always will be some evil hiding under the sun. Yet, she chose to be a soldier and later, a cop because she wanted to protect people. She chose to follow the rules of a particular institution because she knew it would help her to achieve what she wanted to do better.

That's why she can't just sit there and watch HR ruining what she values so much.

It's been a tough time for her. What HR has been doing makes her doubt everyone at work. She isn't sure who she can trust anymore. That probably also explains why she's been leaning closer to John's and Finch's method, even when what they're doing is technically illegal. At least with them, she can actually help someone.

Given the current situation, however, the future doesn't look so bright.

She has a bad feeling.

At the same time, Carter is extremely frustrated by Cal Beecher. Because, actually, she likes him quite a lot. She likes how gentle he is. She likes the way he smiles every time when he talks to her. Also, she likes the fact that Cal can't tell roses from jasmines, but he still tried to compliment her in such an adorable way.

But, Carter questions herself, how can she be sure that Cal is someone she can trust under current circumstances? She will never forgive herself if she fails to protect the thing she values the most because she's compromised by her own feelings. And the stronger she feels for Cal, the stricter she is toward him. The stricter she is on herself.

Carter never predicts what her decision will cost her in the coming future.

Her bad feeling soon becomes a reality. When she hears the news from the police radio that Cal Beecher is shot while on duty, she rushes there only to witness his lifeless body lying in the stairwell. Fusco kindly offers his shoulder for her to cry a little, but she knows this is not the end.

She doesn't believe a single word stated in the report. Her instinct tells her it was HR.

And she'll prove it and bring whoever murdered Cal to justice. She swears to herself at Cal's funeral.

After the ceremony, Carter goes back home with a weary heart. The moment she arrives, however, Cal is there. He stands by her door with a shy smile on his face, waiting for her.

"I was hoping maybe I'd see you again, Joss," Cal says, "Does this mean that you're actually quite fond of me?"

"Oh shut up, Cal." Carter throws her arms around Cal's neck and pulls him into a tight hug. "I was hoping maybe you'd come back to me, too. What do you think?"

Later when they share the last of the ice cream in Carter's fridge while sitting cross-legged on the floor at the end of her bed, Carter asks whether Cal knows about who might be behind his murder.

"I'm not sure, really. It all happened too fast. But now that I think of it, maybe I accidentally got hold of something HR didn't want me to have."

"I think it was HR, too," Carter agrees. "I'll solve this case for you, Cal. I promise. I can't let them have this go their way."

Cal holds her closer and with a worried voice he says, "Then let me solve this with you, Joss. Don't do this alone. And, technically, this is my case, you know."

Carter agrees.

Even though Cal returned to her, Carter always has this feeling that one day he'll be gone all of a sudden. Doesn't want to let this second chance slip from her hand again, Carter makes more time outside of work to be with Taylor and Cal. Seeing them get to know each other, Carter sometimes asks herself what if she had made this decision sooner? Would anything be different? Or nothing would really change?

As for her vigilante friends. Carter notices that both John and Finch are overworked. And yet the crime rate keeps increasing. Also, something major seems to have changed between them, and it certainly doesn't help the job they're doing.

One day, John stops by, and after they exchange information about the Returning incident and her investigation of HR, Carter brings it up. "You know, when you'd been working together, and you saw each other almost every day, it felt like nothing would ever change. And there was always a seemed more important thing in life. So you'd tell yourself that, there was still time. Then, without warning, the world you'd been used to was torn down into pieces, and it was all too late."

"And why are you telling me all this, Carter?" John asks, his voice steady. However, there is something hiding in his eyes that Carter will never mistake. She knows that he gets what she's trying to say, whether he admits it in her face or not.

"Not for any particular reason," she says mildly without pushing. "Just something I've been thinking after Cal's death and returning."

Carter saying all that because she could recognize an idiot when she saw one—or two, in this specific case—because she'd also been there. Everyone probably all has been there once or twice in their lifetime, Carter thinks, that's why you need a friend to give an outsider point of view.


	8. Chapter 8

Despite Harold's wish, fixing the Machine's malfunction is far more difficult than it sounds.

To begin with, he'd built it as a closed system to keep it away from anyone's full access—hence, the power abuse it'd inevitably lead to—which means no one, including himself, will be able to gain access and touch the code directly. Not having anticipated a situation like the current one, Harold now can only use the backdoor Nathan had created as the only vulnerability to hacking in. To do that and rewrite the code, however, is like playing chess with the Machine's creator, a paranoid man who'll do anything to protect that absolute power from being claimed by any living person.

Meanwhile, the numbers never stop coming. Before they come up with a reliable method to differentiate between dead numbers and irrelevant numbers to find out who is under immediate threat, they have to assume all of them might need their help.

It gets harder and harder for them to help numbers even with Nathan's help. There'd been days full of numbers in the past, but the current situation is worse. Background checks and gathering surveillance feeds have already taken most of their time, and if they don't want to risk omitting anyone in need, they'll have to take the risk of chasing on the wrong path and eventually failing to be there in time.

"I think people returning to life are less likely to be our numbers," Nathan proposes one day.

"How so?" Harold asks.

"I could be wrong. But if dead people... When dead people are brought back to life and have this second chance," Nathan emphasizes, "Why would they spend their limited time on committing violent acts when they have someone to go back to?"

"What do you mean by limited?" Harold asks pointedly. He really isn't overeager to be reminded this often of Nathan's state, whether Nathan is making an argument or not.

"I don't know, Harold. It just fell out of my mouth. The point is... if John's theory is right. Dead people will return to those who desire to see them again. Why wouldn't they stay together this time? Why would they leave the living ones behind to chase some... revenge? I know I would never!"

What Nathan says reminds Harold how he'd put his finger on the trigger that would've sent Alicia Corwin into flame, and how he'd given up at the last second, without knowing which part he should be more ashamed for.

"I got my list back, Harold," Nathan continues in a softer voice, "and I can help numbers with you and John. I spend more time with Will now, getting to know my son better. His dreams. His proudest achievements. The first time a crush broke his heart. I'm not learning these things from those lifeless documents, but from speaking with him. Olivia and I are even planning a family dinner. Will is over the moon. I just know that I'll never give up any of these."

"They might not be perpetrators," John reminds, "But what if there's someone wants to hurt them?"

"I don't like the feeling of having to make the final decision here, either," Harold says, "But I got what Nathan meant. The numbers are flooding in. Sooner or later we'll have to prioritize. But we are not leaving anyone behind."

Harold knows that Nathan's argument could be influenced by his own experience and sentiment. But who says Harold's view isn't? He just hopes the day they can no longer cope doesn't come too fast.

The day, however, arrives sooner than they feared.

They try to narrow dozens of numbers down to only seven, and they spend hours watching the most likely victims only to discover the violent act they needed to prevent was miles away. Someone who returned to his widow decides to kill her new lover out of jealousy. Although John and Nathan manage to get there in time, the victory feels like a weary failure.

Nathan is more frustrated. He leaves the library with Bear after saying he's meeting Will and Olivia that night.

When Nathan's footsteps can't be heard anymore, Harold finds himself alone with John in the library.

The last time they were here alone, John suggested Harold go back to Grace, and despite Harold's refusal, despite what Harold tried to tell John, they never talked about that again.

The tension in the air is palpable. In an effort to break the wall of silence between them, Harold tasks himself with choosing a takeout place while asking John which one he prefers, yet—

"I'm not really in a takeout mood, Finch."

"Oh..." Harold freezes, his fingers still above the keyboard and his gaze between Vietnamese and Indian—some of John's favorites. "Okay." He looks down at the desk. So John doesn't even want to share a meal with him, then.

"What do you think about spaghetti and cheddar soup?" John offers instead.

Harold turns to look at John, bewildered.

John answers him with a modest but wishful smile, "Come to my place, Finch. I'll cook."

They go to the loft that Harold gifted John in the hope that John would feel less like a vagabond in this ever-changing and anonymous life. John makes them dinner. John lets him help with the washing-up afterward, and when Harold expresses apologetically that he didn't bring a proper bottle of wine to thank him for the kind invitation, John says, "You can bring one tomorrow."

So, there's a tomorrow.

The next day, Harold brings a bottle of Burgundy to go with the short ribs John proposes. After dinner, Harold stays on the sofa working on his laptop while John takes Bear out for a walk. When John returns, Harold is also about to leave, so John sees him off to the door.

"Seafood risotto and salad?" John asks.

"Sounds lovely, Mr. Reese." Harold nods with a smile. He turns to leave, and it's only after he's a distance away does he hear the door closing.

John makes ravioli on the day following risotto. Harold finds a few more cushions on the sofa and a laptop-stand beside it. They spend the rest of the evening there, Harold working on fixing the Machine and John reading materials about the Returning.

Harold falls asleep on the sofa the next day.

He feels warm and comfy when he's woken up by John's tender voice. Eyes half-opened, he finds a soft blanket draped over him, those cushions still supporting his back perfectly, the gentle pressure of John's hand. John crouches down near the sofa, looking up. John is so close that Harold can see the shadows cast by light through John's eyelashes.

"You can use the bed if you want, Harold."

Drowsily, he asks, "What about you?"

John lets out a wry smile, his hand on Harold's forearm withdrawn. Harold's eyes follow his hand as it moves until it disappears behind John's neck. Realizing that John is stroking the skin of the back of his own neck, Harold's mouth suddenly dry. John answers, "I'll... Bear needs one more run tonight. He's been restless. You go get some sleep. And... uh... I'm sure the bed you bought is big enough for two."

When Harold wakes up again the next morning, the other half of the bed is empty. Only the edge is rumpled. John likely lay there the whole night.

 

***

 

"I worry that I've taken too much from you, Mr. Reese," Harold says before they're about to leave the library, "I've been bothering you a lot recently."

Stop on his way heading to the exit of the library's main room, John half-turns to Harold. "No, you're not," John says firmly, "if we have to calculate it, Finch, pretty sure I'm the one who's taken more."

Harold shakes his head in confusion.

Walking back to where Harold stands, John only stops when there are a few inches between them, and Harold is holding his breath without knowing.

"When you gave me this job," John says. "You gave me a chance to use my skills to help people. I can never thank you enough. Now we're at the middle of this chaos. We all want to solve this. But we're also tired, and you're exhausted."

Harold blinks. Something inside his chest flutters.

John continues, "At least let me take care of you, Harold. So that at the end of the day, I know I've accomplished something. I look after the one I care for, and my day doesn't pass in vain. And we'll continue to face each day as it comes."

"What you and Nathan have been doing isn't in vain," Harold tries, still upset about his own slow progress, "I'm sorry that it takes me so long... and I haven't—"

"That's not what I meant," John interrupts softly, "I really need this, Harold, please..."

In response to John's pleading, Harold lifts his eyes to meet with John's, and just when Harold thinks he'll undoubtedly get lost in those vulnerable, alluring blue eyes, John offers, "Come home with me, Harold. I'll cook dinner."

 

***

 

They keep working hard, try to help wherever they can, and come back to the loft to have at least a decent meal and some quiet hours together. They become accustomed to preparing food and washing the dishes in tandem. They're getting used to sharing the sofa in the evening, and the bed at night.

But they always know the storm is coming.

When Harold hears from the police radio that Detective Beecher is killed in a shootout in a dark stairwell, he questions himself what's the point of keeping trying when they can't even prevent a close friend from heartbroken. He takes off his glasses and buries his face in palms, John's hand protectively touching his back. The warmth it offers almost makes him tear up in a silent breakdown.

 

***

 

When Harold and Bear get back from the evening walk, John is busy in front of the stove. The house is filled with the smell of roast chicken and corn soup.

"Dinner is almost ready. Just a few more minutes."

"No need to hurry, Mr. Reese." Harold unhooks Bear's leash. While watching Bear strolling back to his dog bed, Harold takes off his coat, hangs it up, and then starts to roll up his sleeves. He's got familiar with John's cooking routine now and the two of them working together can always make it quicker—More importantly, Harold really enjoys having moments like this in the middle of all the uncertainty they've been experiencing lately. It makes him feels anchored, and like he belongs.

"How's Detective Carter holding up?" Harold asks while helping to set the table. Knowing the fact that Detective Beecher had returned to Carter after the funeral doesn't make the whole situation less cruel. Especially when Nathan keeps hinting that dead people who returned to life will only stay temporarily, and no one knows how long they'll stay.

"She already suspected that HR had something to do with those officers' death. Now that Beecher has returned, they're working on the case while spending some time together," John says, turning off the stove and then bringing dinner onto the table, "She swears to bring whoever responsible to justice, naturally. They've damaged the value system she believes. She's lost a friend. And now Beecher. Bringing down HR is what now drives her. I think that's also why Beecher insists on staying with her. She's been pushing herself too hard."

"It must be tough," Harold says with empathy, "knowing that the one you love could vanish and the time you have with each other might end in any minute. How can one copes with that?"

"What's the difference, Harold?" John asks while scooping up his soup. He doesn't look at Harold, as if he just mentions it casually, but his tone is serious. "In our line of work, we might be dead any minute from now. Any time we part might be the last time we see each other."

Harold pauses. He puts down his fork and looks up to John, who continues having his dinner without speaking any further.

They finish the dinner in silence.

After dinner, Harold collects used plates and bowls to put them into the sink. But just before he's about to wash the dishes, John places a gentle hand on his arm.

"These can wait," John says, his voice as earnest as minutes before when he talked about the impermanence of life, and Harold can feel his heartbeats racing.

Following John's lead toward the sofa, Harold is a little drowsy in a good way. Probably because he just had a great meal. Or because John's house is cozy and comfortable. The newly bought rug under the sofa is soft and comfy for them to sit on, or walk on barefoot. Or, perhaps, Harold lets his thoughts wander just a little after getting rid of his shoes and settling on his preferred side of the sofa, it's because how John is now staring up at him from a lower position sitting on the rug, his fingers circling tenderly but possessively around Harold's wrist.

"Comfortable?" John asks.

"Perfectly."

"Um..." John pauses. "You want some tea? Or later?"

"No. I'm good for now, John." After a deep breath, Harold says, "Do you... You have anything to tell me?"

"Yes. I've been thinking... what you said once. How you didn't want to make the same mistakes again."

"Yes." Eagerly, the word comes out of his mouth.

"I don't, either." John's eyes cast down, his eyelashes fluttering. "And I think… this job we do and... what had happened before, really. Next time, when one of our time is counting down, I might not see you again before..." He swallows. "I might not be able to say this to you, so I'd rather do it now."

The hand holding Harold's wrist slides down slightly, four fingers brushing the back of Harold's hand, the thumb pressing on Harold's palm, caressing. Harold holds onto John's hand before John draws back.

Responding to Harold's act, John lifts his head and looks into his eyes. John gives him a sheepish smile and then continues. "I never thought it was possible to have a place that I could call my home. Somewhere I can always go back to. Because, what would be the point when I'd probably die somewhere nobody knows my name? But you found me, Harold. You not only gave me a job. You gave me a second chance to believe that I'm... good enough to want something. To ask for something I've always wanted."

Harold is short of breath due to John's intense gaze. His heart aches because of what John is saying. How could John not believe that he's good? How could he not believe that he can always ask for something? Anything, really. Anything Harold can do for him—

"It has been 75 days," John says in a bitter voice, "I don't think this is shock or an emotional reaction. Or adrenaline. I don't feel this way out of obligation or some past training I'd received. I'm not asking for this because I think I have to. I'm asking for this because I don't want to let happiness slip out of my hands once again. I don't want to spend the rest of my days thinking about what ifs. Not this time, Harold."

"What are you asking for, John?" Harold can feel his own voice shaking. "What do you want?"

"The truth." John's voice catches. Desperately, he leans forward and bends down a little, pressing his forehead on Harold's palm. "I promise," John says, "Nothing will compromise what we've built together. This job. Numbers. Our... friendship. These are so important to me. I don't want to ruin them, either. But I can't... I can't not ask... I realize that I've never asked it out loud, and there's one thing I can always count on—You said you'd never lie to me."

"I won't," Harold answers in a trace, helplessly. "I will never lie to you, John. Never."

"You're the best person I've ever met, and the smartest, the kindest. The most furious when things in this world aren't put right. You give me the light I need to see the world I'd thought impossible. And you're the one person I'll always want to go back to, wherever I am, Harold. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you if possible, but I don't know if you feel the same, and... I don't expect just because I ask, you'll... Just please, tell me the truth."

A single tear streams down his face, but Harold can't care less. He moves his hand down to touch John's cheek, caress his jaw, and then lifts his face up gently. He looks into those blue eyes as tear-filled as his own, and Harold says it like a prayer. "You've always been the bravest of the two of us, John. And the most compassionate. The most selfless. You're the best thing that ever happened to me." Harold rests his hands on John's shoulders, affectionately. "I can remember every morning I wake up wanting to see you. And every time you leave the library and I start to miss you. Of course, I love you, John. Forgive me for taking this long to figure it out."

Sitting at the edge of the sofa and leaning toward John, Harold feels John's hands steadying around his waist in return, to help him keep his balance.

Face turned up, John's gaze searches on Harold's face in earnest. It wanders about between his jaw and mouth, John's own lips slightly parted.

Lifting one hand to cup John's cheek, thumb caressing the line beside the corner of John's mouth—a detail Harold has always been secretly staring at when he thinks John isn't looking—the other hand circling around John's neck, Harold whispers, "One step further, I won't fall... We'll be fine."

"We'll be fine," John repeats, pleading. "Yes, Harold. Please."

Harold leans towards John further to press his lips to John's. When his body leaves the sofa completely, John wraps both his strong arms around Harold's middle and with a smooth motion, John sits back steadily on the rug, Harold safely secured in his embrace. With everything he has, Harold throws himself into the single-minded task of kissing John, who's kissing him back.

The first time they kissed was nothing like this. It was the heated desperation and desire that burned in a cold, merciless world, where the possibility of a tomorrow was unthinkable. And there was no time to think about questions that were so important but difficult to be answered in a human's lifetime.

But this time... This time is different. They taste the softness of each other's lips, biting softly and teasingly, breathing the air that belonged to the other merely seconds ago for it is evidence that they exist at this very moment, sharing a life. As if they can spend the rest of their time just doing this.

As if they have all the time in this world, and it's infinite, Harold thinks faintly, as he slides down one hand into John's shirt to feel his back muscle and scars, as John untucks Harold's shirt and then unbuckles the belt, his hand stroking on the skin of the back of Harold's left thigh feverishly.

Only when his vest grows too annoying to be ignored does Harold draws back his hand and helps John to remove it. His hands are back to the hem of John's shirt in no time, pulling it up, for the separation feels unbearable. John rolls his shoulders to get rid of it.

"Harold..." When their bare skin touches, John moans.

Panting lightly, Harold sits back a little and lifts his eyes. "Hmm?"

"Bed?"

That'd be nice, Harold blinks for a brief second. His gaze drifts up to John's ruffled hair and then down, the side from John's throat to collarbone all flushed.

Without answers, Harold plants his mouth on John's shoulder line where it touches the back of the neck, licking and sucking gently and enjoying John's moaning, his hands charting John's broad back.

"…kay. Got what you mean," John whispers. After carefully guiding Harold to lie back and settle on the soft and thick rug with cushions' support, John lowers his body and brushes sweet kisses along the way, his mouth and heated breathes roving from Harold's collarbone to chest, and stomach, and then below.

The measurement of time for Harold is now defined by this single moment. Every exploration they make. Every detail they discover. A curve that leads to another unrevealed part of the other's body. A scar that seals a story. A moan or gasp that is formed when nails scratch lightly over sensitive skin. One moment can be divided into hundreds of seconds. One second can be divided into a thousand milliseconds. And if one keeps splitting it up, there's always time exiting in between to be found. In a way, Harold thinks hazily, his fingers buried in John's hair, caressing his scalp as John moves, that's where one can find eternity. Forever lives inside a single moment.

John's hands now grip the waist of Harold's already unbuttoned pants, desperately. His fingers dig into the edge of his briefs. The sensation of those calluses brushing over his hipbones makes Harold thrust up involuntarily.

"Oh, John..." Harold pleads, and John pulls everything down and takes him into his wet, heated mouth.

At some point in the night, they're back in the bed. Harold isn't sure when, and neither does he care. Everything surrounding him is about John, who is now on top of him, straddling his body and taking him in. The way John stares at him through his eyelashes. The way sweat forms on John's skin and the heat under Harold's fingers when he tries to touch it, to feel it. The way John's moaning joins with Harold's own. And how John says Harold's name when he reaches his climax after Harold's, as Harold's hand brings him off, his throat bared into a vulnerable and beautiful curve.

They lie in bed cuddling afterward while their world is all still heat and breathing. Harold feels John's breath brushing against his skin satisfyingly. It's warm, and it makes him feel safe. Harold can't imagine how he can spend a night alone after knowing how it's like to have John by his side.

After pressing kisses on Harold's skin where he can reach, John asks, his voice full of love and light. "When?"

Harold chuckles. "I don't know. Maybe it happened during the third time we ate takeout together. Or it was when I lost you. When I found out that I couldn't afford to lose you." He pulls John nearer into another kiss on lips before he continues. "A star already shines for a long time before its light is seen, John. After it happened, I cannot think of a moment in my life when it hasn't."


	9. Chapter 9

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The next morning when John wakes up, Harold is still asleep with his head tucked into the curve of John's throat, his breathing tickling John's collarbone.

John pulls back just enough to see Harold's sleeping face—he had been doing so secretly since they started to share the bed platonically—watching Harold being safely relaxed and resting, gaining enough energy for the coming day's endeavor was almost enough for John to live with the ache growing in his chest.

This time, John reaches out a hand to caress Harold's soft cheek, thinking about how so much has changed between them, and how so many things, in fact, remain unchanged. This, in a sense, has always been where their relationship was meant to arrive. Harold's forehead is relaxed, his still swollen lips parted slightly. Overwhelmed by how much affection pouring from his beating heart by merely feeling Harold's existence this close, John leans to place a kiss on Harold's closed eyelids. The fragile and slightly moist eyelash shivers under his lips. In his deep sleep, Harold lets out a sigh—

Bear's footsteps come near. He whimpers in confusion because of all the garments scattered near the bed which he has to step over. When he gets to the bedside, Bear puts his head on the edge of the mattress, reminding it's time for his and John's morning run.

John can't help letting out a soft laugh. After he gently adjusts Harold's position to help him sleep more comfortably and presses another kiss on Harold's forehead, John gets off the bed in answer to Bear's whine.

When John and Bear come back, Harold is using the bathroom. The house is filled with the sound of the shower running and the soothing smell of sencha green; their tea newly made awaits on the table, Harold's laptop beside it. After a brief consideration of whether to join Harold in the shower, John decides to make their breakfast first.

Harold approaches from behind when John is about to flip the eggs, and the toast is well done. John places their food into a plate, turns off the stove, and then turns around. His reward for waiting for Harold to finish his turn in the shower is that John gets to see this: Harold in his shirt but without a vest, his cuffs unbuttoned and loosely folded up, his hair still damp and he's barefoot, his cheeks slightly pink.

"Hey," John says with an affectionate smile on his lips. "Morning."

"Good morning, my love." Harold comes near, and after taking the plate to put it safely on the counter, Harold stands on tiptoes and kisses John on the lips, tasting the curve of happiness.

John brings Harold nearer, one hand holding protectively behind Harold's lower back, the other hand slides to behind Harold's neck, supporting him in a comfortable angle. As the kiss deepens, John is faintly aware of an unfamiliar sound; he has never heard it here inside this house.

A phone is ringing. Not his or Harold's cell phone.

"Umm... I never use the landline," John says in between kisses. He isn't even aware of the fact that there's one in the loft.

"Ah." Harold pauses, his eyes fixed on John's mouth intensively. He licks his own lower lip, and after letting out a breath, he says, "I'll have to get that."

John tells himself that it's very immature to be jealous of the Machine. Also, if it chose to contact Harold in this unusual way, it's probably something urgent. He starts to pack their breakfast in case they have to leave asap. He'd never want Harold to start the day on an empty stomach.

When Harold returns, he's typing something on his phone, looked puzzled.

"We have a number," Harold says.

"A number? You mean just one?"

"Yes, John. But unlike Lou, this one seems more complicated. I just did a quick search online, and it turned out our number was killed four days ago." Harold turns his phone's screen to John, showing him the headline.

"Dr. Richard Nelson..." John gets closer, positioning his head near Harold's to read the screen of the cell phone carried on Harold's hand.

Their number was a specialist in the field of heart transplants. About a week ago, he received the title of Professor Emeritus from Booker University. After the ceremony, however, Dr. Nelson was witnessed by multiple people to be visually terribly ill and left the venue soon after. The 911 then received a call from Dr. Nelson, who claimed he was poisoned by someone who attempted to murder him. Without getting appropriately treated in time, he died in great pain after he got to the hospital. The relevant authorities are currently trying to solve the case but so far without progress.

"Do you think the Machine sent his number because he's back to life, or it tried to warn us but failed to send the Doc's number in time because it's malfunctioning?" John asks.

"I'm not sure. If it was the latter, the situation is very worrisome. Maybe that's why it failed to send us Detective Beecher's number. God knows who we also missed," Harold says, disturbed. "Dr. Nelson had called the police before he died... I think I'll go to the library to check who else he called that day. Gain access to the surveillance record and retrace his steps as well."

"I'll go to Booker University's medical center and see what I can find, then," John says, "Take Bear with you."

"You be careful too, John."

They kiss goodbye before going out of the door.

When John arrives at the venue for the ceremony, he finds Dr. Nelson searching in front of the table in great annoyance. He lifts up a water pitcher and shakes it, and then curses silently after finding out there's no water left.

"They must've cleaned all the evidence already," Dr. Nelson is murmuring when John approaches. After finding out there's another man in the room, he becomes very hostile.

"Who are you?" he questions.

"Someone who should've saved you, doctor, I'm sorry that I was late."

"What do you mean?" Dr. Nelson demands an answer. "What do you know about me?"

"I know you are a good doctor who has saved hundreds of lives. A good teacher and scientist whose achievement was just recognized," John says softly, "and you didn't deserve to die."

Putting down the water pitcher on the table, face suddenly pale, Dr. Nelson exhales heavily and then says, "I think someone poisoned me with some kind of radioisotope. I don't know who. And why. But I have to know. Who did this to me?" His voice shakes.

"Let me help you, doctor," John offers, taking a few steps closer.

"I don't know you, mister." There's still some defensiveness remains, but Dr. Nelson's attitude is hugely softened. "But why do I feel that I can trust you?"

"Well... I am really a good person?" John gives him a friendly smile. "You can call me Reese."

At this moment, Harold's voice comes in. "John, I just went through Dr. Nelson's phone records. On the day he was poisoned, he made two phone calls after leaving the venue. Before he called the 911, he called his daughter, Molly Nelson."

"So, he has a daughter..." John murmurs.

"And according to their conversation in the last call," Harold says on the other end of the line, "the father and daughter were having a tense and frustrating relationship. Molly went to the ceremony, but they didn't even talk. The father thought the daughter rebellious and a rule-breaker. The daughter, on the other hand, considers the father hypocritical."

"That does bring up a question..." John then turns to ask Dr. Nelson, "Where were you when you were brought back to life, Doctor?"

"I know what you're asking, Reese, I heard about this phenomenon, too. Some said that the dead would be brought back to those who still missed them. When I was dying, though, I thought I would never have the chance. Who'd miss me? My wife and daughter left me because I was having an affair. My colleagues seemed to envy me more than like me."

"But you're back. That must mean something," John tries.

"Well, yes, I am. When I realized I was back to this world again, I was standing at the block near Molly, my daughter's flat where she shares with a bunch of her friends. They call themselves social activists."

"But you didn't go to see her?"

"Why would I?"

"Why wouldn't you?" It's irrational, but John finds himself somehow irritated by other people's choices that really shouldn't concern him. "If Molly misses you that much it brought you back to life, what would she feel if her father never returned to her?"

"She'll feel that we never get along! And I'd rather she takes it that way, Reese. It's better than I going back to her and we fight again after exchanging three sentences. We're... Molly and I have always been too different. What's the point?"

John falls silent.

After a while, Dr. Nelson says, "I know why I'm back. Some bastard murdered me, and this is a chance for me to solve this case and get to them."

"Then let me help," John offers again, this time even firmer.

"Why are you insisting on helping me?"

"Because you deserve the truth, and together we can solve this case faster," John says, "so you'll get more time left to spend with your daughter in case you change your mind."

On their drive to the lodge owned by Vincent Cochran, Harold's voice raises in John's ear, saying that after he visiting Dr. Nelson's lab, he detected low-level alpha particle emissions. The toxic material Dr. Nelson ingested was polonium.

"He was a doctor, a scientist, and a teacher. And now, he's a perpetrator," Harold says, wondering at the irony of the situation.

"I'll have to help him if we failed to in the first place, Harold," John says while driving to their next destination. "And our doctor won't consider going back to his daughter until he has answers for his murder."

"Point taken." Then, Harold pauses for a while before he calls John's name. "John..."

"Hmm?"

"No... We can talk about this later." Harold changes his mind. "Tell me if you need anything, John. And when you finish this, Bear and I will wait for you at home."

 

***

 

It's after another 18 hours when John finally gets home.

The moment he enters the door, Bear greets him with full enthusiasm like a shining sun. John crouches down to pat Bear thoroughly.

"I made some food," Harold says while placing plates on the table. "Can't imagine you had any decent meals in the past few hours."

"You're right. I'm starving." John stands up and walks near to pull Harold into a hug, a soft kiss planted on the top of Harold's head. "Thanks, Harold."

"How did Dr. Nelson's and Molly's meeting go?" Harold asks.

"Better than either of them had expected," John answers while sitting down at the table with Harold. "It turned out they are not as different as Dr. Nelson believed. Molly doesn't look down on her father's medical career, in fact, they are a lot alike in the sense that they both have a great passion for helping people, for making this world a better place."

"I'm glad that you helped to give them a chance to see that, John."

They eat in a comfortable silence for a while, then, John remembers something and asks, "What did you want to talk with me earlier?"

"Oh," Harold swallows before answering, "It's just... You seemed especially engaged in this case. I got worried earlier for some reasons I couldn't put my finger on. Apologies. Must be me being overreacting."

"Uhm..." John puts down his fork and covers his hand on Harold's, stroking gently. With sincerity he promises, "I will be careful, I promise, Harold. I will always come back home to you."


	10. Chapter 10

Sitting alone at his working desk in the now silent, empty library, Harold buries himself in the task of fixing the Machine.

At first he tried to set up a sorting system to separate lists of numbers, but he could never decide where to draw the line based on the complexity of people's interaction and the choices they made in life. Eventually, he realized he had to take the route that was more difficult but also more direct, which was to hack into the Machine and rewrite its code. He had to reset its sense of time so that it wouldn't keep sending numbers that had been killed in the past. In that way, no matter if it were a dead number or an irrelevant one, the Machine would only send numbers who were under immediate threat in the present time.

Of course, how Harold had built the Machine made this almost impossible, but there is hope—that Harold had evolved into a better version of his old self.

After so much time devoted to this task, tonight Harold finally feels he's getting somewhere. The light waiting at the end of a long, dark tunnel is almost visible.

Hence he chooses to stay in the library to work instead of joining John at the vet for Bear's regular physical examination this evening. He is hoping that he might be able to fix the Machine's issues once and for all.

After tonight, everything will back to normal, Harold thinks. He and John will keep helping numbers, hiding from the authorities in an anonymous life, and, most importantly, building in this world a corner that—though not as conventional as people might think—is undoubtedly a home for which they've both been longing for a very long time.

Just as Harold is about to retreat from the ocean of the Machine's code and run a final test to make sure the issue is resolved, a series of short and rapid beeping pierces through the quietness in the library's main room. On the monitor, the digits flip furiously, changing, overwriting itself, as though it's an organic being struggling to resist conversion.

Stunned by this abrupt turn, Harold speedily modifies the code, his fingers flying on the keyboard. Yet, the Machine avoids Harold's commands like crazy, Harold almost can't catch up with its progress.

This makes him think of the time when he was still building a prototype—back then, the Machine wasn't what it is now—and when it didn't want to be shut down, it bit back at its own creator violently.

But... this _is_ the Machine. And it doesn't fight Harold. It only refuses to be fixed. It seems to be afraid...

"Of what? I'm not shutting you off," Harold comforts, "I just want to fix your sense of time so we can work better to save people. Those who need our help—now. Not those who we were already too late to help."

Instead of listening to Harold, the Machine continues its wild behavior.

"Do you... feel sorry for them? Those we were already unable to save?"

Harold remembers when he talked with John about how the energy causing the Returning also caused the Machine to confuse the past with the present, to keep sending dead numbers who had once been irrelevant numbers before the Machine had been created, John understood it in a very human way. "It's like your Machine regrets being too late for what happened in the past," John said.

Well... yes. The sense of regret is a misplaced event that keeps repeating itself in a time frame that no longer exists. But the Machine isn't just stuck in a state of regret. It refuses to move on from it. So while it keeps flooding the present with dozens of dozens of numbers that might not be in danger anymore, the only thing it does is fail to fulfill its purpose.

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing we can do for those who were already dead," Harold tries to reason with the Machine. "Why are you acting like this? Who was the one person you aren't able to forgive yourself for being too late?"

At this moment, Harold's cell phone buzzes.

"Not really good timing, Nathan," Harold says after picking up the phone. He puts the call on speakerphone to free his both hands for working on the Machine.

Hesitated, Nathan stays silent on the other end.

"What, Nathan? I'm right in the middle of something, actually. Can I call you back later?"

"No, Harold." Making up his mind, Nathan says, "There's something I feel you need to know. Something vital."

"Yeah, I'm listening," Harold says while typing on the keyboard. His attention, though, is drawn by Nathan's serious tone.

"At first, I had this vague feeling," Nathan starts, "but I wasn't sure. There were too many things we needed to comprehend after we'd returned, and most of our concentration was focused on who brought us back, so when we first met I thought the familiarity was because... we just got along. I didn't think too much into it since we had so much in common. We both wanted to help numbers. We both cared about you—"

"What are you talking about? Who are 'we'?" Harold is confused. But whatever Nathan is trying to say isn't good news. He's never been hesitated to share good things. That's just not his personality. The only few times he acted like this were when Nathan feared what he had to say would hurt Harold.

Paying full attention now, Harold urges, "Nathan?"

"Where's John?" Nathan asks abruptly.

"He took Bear to the vet. Why?"

Harold hasn't spoken to Nathan about his newly developed relationship with John yet. Not officially. But he doesn't try or want to hide it, either. They've kissed and held hands and remained a physical closeness in the library, with or without Nathan's presence, so Harold reckons that Nathan already knows.

"I'm sorry, Harold." Why is Nathan saying sorry? "I wish I were wrong... But you might need to check—"

"To check what?" Harold is suddenly very anxious. Something is breaking down the library's wall, and he doesn't like the feeling.

"Whether John has any memory gaps. A period of time during which he can't recall what he was doing or where he was."

"Why?" Harold demands.

Before Nathan can answer, the landline in the library rings out sharply, making Harold jump. Nothing is breaking down the library's wall, Harold realizes, it's just a number.

"Wait for a sec," Harold tells Nathan before he goes to pick up the receiver.

On the other end, the robotic voice mixed with male and female sounds delivers:

Shadow. Victor. Bravo.

Time. November. Whiskey.

Flight. Uniform. X-ray.

Close.

Harold memorizes those in mind. This sounds alarmingly familiar, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

"Is that a number?" Nathan asks.

"Yes." Harold limps to gather books with those titles and author initials. The moment he gets all three books to hand, the landline rings again. So Harold goes back into the shelves to grab another three books. Then the phone rings again. Without any breaks, The Machine gives one number after another. When there are more than two piles of books on the desk, Harold decides to stop for a moment.

"There seem to be a lot." Nathan's comment comes in through the speakerphone.

"Indeed," slightly out of breath, Harold says, "But some of them seem related. I'm checking those SSNs now."

In the background, the Machine is still calling.

"Related how?" Nathan raises his voice.

"I've had some SSNs decoded before, just in case... Only some of them, of course, those had been more frequently used. That's why I didn't realize until now." Harold can feel his stomach churning. "They are all prior aliases for one person."

It's John.

"You'll have to excuse me, Nathan. I have to call John and warn him. the Machine sent his number. A series of them. It must be urgent. Someone. Some organization is coming after him."

Harold thinks quickly. Kara Stanton had died. So had Mark Snow. Elias has half of the city under control. HR is the most likely threat now in the picture. Regardless, he has to ask John to get back to the library asap...

He realizes the phone ringing never stops.

"No, Harold," Nathan cuts in, "Think about it. You haven't fixed the Machine. So it still has a chance to tell you. John isn't an irrelevant number! I think he's just like me. And you both need to know this."

"No..." Harold wishes Nathan could stop talking. He wishes none of these was real.

"We all know that this is a second chance. But it doesn't mean forever."


	11. Chapter 11

**87 days ago**

"... said once... sooner or later we'd both probably end up dead."

The gale whirling against them takes away every word almost instantly after John speaks it out; nonetheless, Harold hears him. Harold hears him with an amplified clarity as if those words are the most important code at this given time and place to be deciphered. Not the bomb vest he's trying to disarm.

"I'd prefer later. After all, I'm the one that got you into this in the first place."

Harold tries to stay focused on the task at hand. Because it's true. John's life matters. He wouldn't have ended up here alone with a bomb strapped on his chest counting down fiercely if Harold hadn't hired him for this job.

John might still be without a purpose. But he'd be alive in a place where his ex-colleagues would never find him. As long as he's still alive—

"Pretty sure I'd be dead already if you hadn't found me..."

As if knowing what Harold is thinking, John argues, one word after another, the edge of the message rough, its backbone sure and certain as though it's the thing making John walk this far. And there's something about the way John says those words that makes Harold's chest ache.

"It's hard to say."

Harold mentally shakes his head. He really has to focus on this—

"Not really."

The unmistakable faith and tenderness in his tone have Harold raise his head, their eyes met, the time that ticks away almost forgotten.

Standing on the top of this building from which people are currently retreating like the tide ebbing from the shore, the gale driving the rest of their world away. They're alone now. They are together. The end of their time approaches.

Something inside Harold's chest shakes fiercely, uncontrollably at this realization, at how, in truth, peaceful and satisfying it can be... just standing here, with John. He feels that he belongs. He feels his strength and vulnerability surging inside both at the same time.

It's terrifying.

"Pick a winner, Harold."

The same epiphany reflects back from John's teary eyes, his expression is raw, so breakable, yet full of trust.

Harold had never seen John Reese afraid, yet John was afraid upon seeing Harold showing up on the roof, for Harold's own life. As if it was the most vital thing even when John's life was at risk.

But John isn't afraid now, Harold can see that. He isn't afraid of putting the weight of the life of the person John values this much into Harold's own hands. Just a random number he picks, and that's it. They'll both die. Or survive. It all depends on Harold's choice. His choice.

What have you done, Harold? Harold asks himself. What have you done?

With his shaky hand, Harold enters the IMEI code, praying.

One last time. One last choice of his. Harold holds his breath, knowing that John is also holding his own. Their fates intertwined like two wired timed bombs waiting to explode...

0:09

0:08

Then it stops.

0:07

Above him, John exhales sharply when Harold also lets out a heavy breath.

Do we survive? Harold wonders, staring into John's eyes. Or this is the afterlife now, you and I?

Intensely, their gazes entwined as they both breathe hard.

I thought I had got you killed. It was my fault.

It's after seconds when Harold finds out that he didn't speak it out loud.

John opens his mouth, about to say something. Before his words come out, however, something explodes with a huge sound that startles them both.

"It seems Mark retired after all."

Whether John is trying to ease the tension with his dark sense of humor, Harold doesn't actually care at this moment, his gaze drawn to John's mouth; those lips part and close as John speaks. John is alive. He even tried to comfort him.

Yet the sound of the bomb exploding still echoes inside Harold's chest. His gaze moves down to the bomb vest strapped on John's chest. The number of 0:07 looks threatening as if it'll start to countdown any second from now.

With an urge to strip it off John, Harold grabs the vest with both his hands in desperation. He hears John let out a groan, but he can't help himself, dragging down John's body towards him.

"Finch, wait..."

Furiously, Harold disassembles the vest, and his hand touches the phone's surface by chance. It's so cold. It's lifeless. It drives Harold insane because how can something be cold and lifeless when it had been that close to John's heart.

The bomb vest thrown aside, Harold presses his palm on John's chest hopelessly. John's heart beats hard and fast under his touch, mirroring Harold's own pounding heart.

"Harold..." John begs, and Harold lets out a sound that's hard to tell whether it's a laugh or a sob.

Raising his face, Harold opens his mouth with a desperate desire to say something that he isn't sure what; that he hasn't figured out fully but he'll have to let it out of his chest now or his heart will surely blast—

Without warning, John's mouth falls on his, devouring his lips with a force Harold had never felt before, and Harold kisses John back with the same fierceness, his hands clinging to John's opened shirt so hard they hurt.

It burns. For a moment, Harold feels like they're both already dead. Except that they aren't. They're breathing and kissing the other with everything they have left as if _It_ , _Now_ , _This Moment_ is already the end of the world.

They lose track of time until Harold is hit by adrenaline drop and his legs finally give up. John tightens his firm embrace around Harold right away to help him stand steadily.

After giving him a concerned and apologetic look, John suggests, his voice hoarse. "We better leave here soon."

The staircase feels so much worse than when Harold was climbing up. He keeps stumbling even when John offers his arm for Harold to hold. Even though John slows down to match Harold's pace, they keep crashing into each other.

After thinking for a moment, John decides to let Harold climb down at his own pace while John waits a few stairs below, and he holds Harold's hand encouragingly along the way. He doesn't let go after they reach the ground floor. He doesn't let go when they're in a cab driving away from the building. He doesn't let go when they arrive at the loft.

Then, Harold lets go of John's hand.

John looks at him, puzzled and concerned. John wants to make sure that Harold is all right. John wants to take care of Harold after all the stairs he has climbed up and down and the aftermath of the adrenaline rush that hits Harold hard.

Harold is well aware of all that, but he makes himself say, as he feels his own heart sinking, "It's been a rough day, Mr. Reese. Rest well, please. If you want a few days off, there's no need to come to the library tomorrow."

He turns to leave before John can say anything, knowing how cowardly he must be acting.

"At least let me call you a cab," John says behind him.

Harold stops. He takes a deep breath, and when he's surer that he can trust his voice, he says, "No. Thank you. I'll be perfectly fine."

And then he walks away, leaving the silence behind.

Whatever thing Harold figured out on that roof... it was too dangerous to let it grow. What happened was all Harold's fault. It was his mistake. While climbing down the staircase, Harold's mind finally caught up with his heart, and now that he realizes what he'd done, he feels ashamed for taking advantage of a man who is his best friend and probably also the best person he's ever known.

Harold took advantage of him when John was the most vulnerable and under the influence of adrenaline because Harold failed to guard his own heart.

Because the bomb wasn't the only thing that Harold disarmed.

As for the thing that exploded. It keeps exploding silently.

 

***

 

In spite of what Harold said, John comes to the library the next day.

Watching Bear greeting John with such great passion, Harold lets himself smile a little, for he knows how much Bear had missed John.

How much he'd missed John.

John lifts his head and looks at Harold, his eyes smiling and full of affection. "Harold?" John calls his name.

With great effort, he makes himself hold John's gaze, waiting.

"Thank you," John says, "for coming for me. I—"

"Please-" Harold cuts in. He feels terrible. But this is the right thing to do. It's the right decision to be made... "-don't mention it."

They spend the rest of the day in silence. The victory of preventing Kara Stanton from uploading the virus doesn't feel like a victory at all. Bear eventually whines away, fleeing from the main room with his tail between legs.

After the sun sets, John stands up from his seat and is about to leave. He's telling Harold that he's going to do something. Something Harold will not be able to recall in the future because he's too busy forcing himself not to beg John to stay.

It's only after John turns away to leave does Harold allow himself to stare at John's figure from behind; does he allow himself to be overwhelmed with the longing and desire for John to return soon, and always, for Harold has always missed him terribly whenever they part.

He can't think of any moment in his life that he hasn't felt in this way.

 

**Now**

Harold makes himself stare at the footage. The evidence of John's death. It happened under the Machine's watch. Yet Harold hasn't known about it until now.

Had the Machine never been affected, it would've let Harold know the moment it happened. Harold isn't sure whether it means that he would've still had a chance to save John, or everything would still be too late nonetheless.

What he knows, however, is that that a spur of the moment murder. Affected or not, the Machine never had a chance to predict it in advance. As complex and powerful as the Machine is, it is powerless in front of ruthless and chaotic fate, and so is Harold.

Harold also knows that John died helping someone innocent. Someone he met that night who fell victim to thugs who were so cruel and cowardly that they'd chosen to come back for revenge even after John was knocked down.

John has always just wanted to protect people. Harold has always known that. And he'd been protecting people all his life until the very end. Harold should be proud of him. But he can't help shivering all over alone in this now empty and silent library, surrounded by a coldness as if it were he who had drowned while unconscious. As if it were his body that now waits to be found in the East River under the bridge where they'd first met.

His John just kissed him goodbye a few hours ago. At this very spot where Harold sits. He can still vividly recall how warm and soft John's lips tasted, how his hands feel when they caressing Harold's cheek and the side of his neck.

And John will be back within an hour. They'll go back home with Bear together. They'll have a late night snack while resting comfortably on their sofa, chatting about their days. They'll take a shower afterward, and make love affectionately in their bed and drift into dreamland while cuddling.

None of this has to change.

All those people returning to their loved ones. And the lives they're living now. None of this has to change.

Maybe nothing is going to happen. Harold tells himself.

He won't allow anything, even death, to take them apart.

Especially not now after they finally...

But Harold also knows he's just fooling himself.

Something is always going to happen, Harold.

He tells himself.


	12. Chapter 12

[](http://tinypic.com/?ref=105beqf)

After the night falls and the streetlights all turn on, everything in the city is now clothed with silk that is translucent and illuminated. John and Bear are on their way back from the vet. Bear was there for his regular physical examination, and he was doing great. Now he's walking a bit ahead of John, his tongue stuck out and his tail wagging enthusiastically, very pleased with himself.

Affected by Bear's good mood, John can't help but smile, his heart full of warmth. Simultaneously, John thinks of Harold and how eagerly John wants to share this ordinary but precious moment with him. How much he wishes Harold were here.

Harold didn't join them earlier in the evening; instead, he stayed in the library to continue working on the Machine. When they kissed goodbye, Harold was optimistic about the progress he would make, telling John with high hopes that he might be able to fix the whole problem in a few more hours. If lucky, they might not receive irrelevant numbers tonight, or even tomorrow. They might be able to have a quality night, even a few days off after the Machine is back to normal.

John mentally plans a shopping route. He'll gather some ingredients and necessities on the way home and wait for Harold. When Harold gets home, John will treat his hard-working lover to a nice meal, a relaxing bath, and massage. He smiles at the thought of him and Harold having a home together. With Bear, of course. Their good boy, Bear.

His phone buzzes. His grin widens upon seeing the caller's number.

"Miss me already, Harold?" John teases, picturing Harold's blushing face in his mind.

On the other end of the phone comes a suffocating silence, and then, a low, uncertain sob. "John?"

"What's wrong?" John asks, concerned all of a sudden because of Harold's unusual behavior. He pulls Bear's leash, letting him know to stop walking further. "Are you unwell or in danger? Where are you?"

"I'm home. Can you..." Harold pauses. John can almost see how Harold is now making an effort to maintain a steady voice. "Can you please come back to me now? We need to talk about... something."

"I'm on my way," John replies immediately. "Don't go anywhere and wait for me, Harold. I'll be right there."

John turns and heads directly home, where Harold is, his original plan abandoned.

John opens the door and sees Harold limping towards him. He probably got up to greet John the moment he heard the sound of the key turning in the keyhole. However, rather than giving John a hug followed by a kiss like how they're getting used to, Harold stops a few inches abruptly in front of John, his gaze glued to John's face but for some reason still unknown, John has this feeling that Harold isn't looking at him. Harold's gaze pierces through John's existence, intensive yet full of sorrow, his chest up and down with heavy breathing, his face completely undone, ashen.

"Are you all right?" John puts his hands on Harold's arms, steadying him, for it looks like Harold will collapse at any moment. "Please tell me. What's wrong? Harold?"

Upon hearing John calling his name, Harold lets out a breath and then throws his arms around John. He clings to John's presence, shivering all over like a leaf in a storm, and he can't speak out a word except "John," he whispers, "John..."

"Yeah, I'm here." Worried that Harold might have been hurt, John gently pushes a little distance between them, just enough for him to do a quick scan to make sure that Harold is physically all right.

But Harold looks up to John, his expression overwhelmed by sadness mixed with a faint hint of blame—he doesn't want to lose the physical contact. John has never seen Harold like this before, his heart aching for whatever reason that might be behind Harold's uncharacteristic behavior. As soon as John loosens his grip, Harold closes the gap between them and buries his whole body into John's embrace.

Bear sits near and turns to look at them, whimpering. He rubs his nose against John's leg, and then he presses his body on Harold's good leg trying to offer some comfort. After realizing it's a futile attempt, Bear eventually decides to sneak inside the house, leaving his masters to sort things out.

John moves his hand up and down on Harold's back, trying to comfort him about something John still needs an answer for. "Let's sit down and talk, okay?" he suggests, "You said there was something we needed to talk about. What was it? You can tell me. We'll sort it out."

Harold lifts his head. His lips are so pale. But just before John is about to ask whether Harold needs more time, Harold bites his lower lip and nods.

They sit down on the sofa, facing each other at an angle with their knees touching. Harold's hands are on his lap, but instead of putting them flat on his thighs like usual, Harold is now clenching his fists a bit too hard. He looks so tense. John leans forward to take Harold's hands with his own. He caresses Harold's knuckles gently and waits.

"Do you..." Harold swallows. "The day when we talked about Maggie Wilson's case, do you remember what happened before you walked in the library?"

John tilts his head, puzzled. He didn't expect their conversation to start with a question like this one. He remembers, back then, Harold had asked him whether the incident later named as the Returning interrupted his sleep, and he'd answered that he hadn't been aware of it. But why would that make Harold this upset?

"Well, I must have got to bed early the night before. So I hadn't known about the incident that had caused Maggie and the other dead people to return until you told me."

"And after you woke up?"

He must have gotten out of bed and then gone through his morning routine. John never thought it different from any other day until Harold brings this up. And now he thinks about it, he realizes his memory of that morning is blurring.

John feels his heart sinking like a stone being thrown into the water. Because yes, something isn't right. Now frowning, John tries to recall anything particular that happened that morning, for Harold's sake, for those eyes flooded with grief.

"I went to buy our tea. Like usual," John tries, "And then I went to buy pastries in the bakery... The one you'd mentioned before I'd got myself captured in that bank."

"But you don't remember anything before that? After you woke up, but before that?" Harold asks in a way like he's begging John to give him something. Some memories. "Can you remember how you got back here the night before it?"

John shakes his head. He remembers waiting in a line for their breakfast in that morning, but everything before that is a pure dark void. The more he tries to recall, the more it feels like searching for a solid thing in an empty bag. John grabs and grabs, yet there's nothing in his hand. It makes him anxious.

"Why are you asking all these?" John feels his throat tightened.

More importantly... Why these questions sound so familiar?

Tears start to fill in Harold's eyes.

Panicked, John tries harder. And then, in the darkness where he previously couldn't find any memories, some lights seem to flicker, far away.

There's a sequence of memories John can now grab onto—his footsteps on the staircase of the library. The warm golden light surrounding him, welcoming him in the lobby. The sound of Harold typing. Harold's smile while greeting him.

At any time when John thinks of Harold, the library, or basically his life now, John always has that sequence of memories in mind. It makes him feels good. It makes him feel connected to this world. It makes him believe that his wish of finally having a place to come home to is possible.

But now, Harold is on the verge of crying here in their home. Something is terribly wrong. John can sense the answer is showing its face. The truth coming into his consciousness like lights that pierce through the thick mist. There's nothing John can do to stop it. It's already done. They just haven't noticed it. Until now.

Those questions sound familiar because they were what those dead people would be asked after they had returned. John learned that from his conversations with Carter and all the materials of the Returning he's been reading. Because people would want to trace back those dead people's last memories before their death, and their earliest memories after coming back. Because there was always a memory gap, a blank between life and death depends on how long they'd been dead.

"I can't remember, Harold," John hears himself says, his own voice trembling, "I can't remember waking up that morning, nor getting home the night before it. Because I never got home, did I? That was the thing you tried to tell me."

"I'm sorry." Harold's voice breaks. "I promised I'd never lie to you."

"I know that." John reaches out a hand to wipe those silent tears that begin to stream down on Harold's face. "I know."

"John, you... You were..." Harold tries but still fails to finish the sentence even on his second attempt.

Hopelessly, John finishes it for him. "I was coming back to you, Harold. You have to know that."

All at the same time, John is aware of so many things that for a while he's choked with emotions. Relief that still mixed with a bit of guilt—He isn't alive enough to bring Jessica back. Remorse that comes with the fear of leaving Harold behind—How much time will they have from now? And gratitude, affection, and love because John knows that the only reason he is still here in this world, breathing, is Harold.

Always. Always, Harold.

John has always secretly hoped that one day he would die for Harold. He would give his life to the person who had saved him, who had believed that John could be who he'd always wanted to be before John had believed it. The person who showed John that he wasn't broken, that he was enough to love again. The person who loves John back.

John has always hoped that he'd die for Harold with a smile on his lips. He never anticipated how much it'd tear up his own heart to witness the amount of sorrow his death would cause Harold.

And Harold is unable to stop. Without a sound, his tears keep falling no matter how many times John tries to wipe them away with his thumb.

Because he was dead. John reminds himself. There's nothing he can do to heal Harold's grief. Because he was already dead. That's why Harold is grieving.

But he's still here, his fingers touching Harold's damp cheek, his thumb tracing Harold's tears and they are wet, and warm, John can still feel all that. How can he be dead if he's still feeling?

A sudden coldness grabs John's feet and then rises from his lower body, swallowing him as if John is drowning. It's the same coldness John felt in Wilson's house, but this time, it's unbearable. The coldness touches all over his skin and pierces through his veins and organs. Unconsciously, John is drawn toward Harold in seek of warmth and comfort. He shivers.

As if sharing the same sensation, Harold moves closer and presses his lips on John's cheek and then down to his jawline, his warm breathes touching John's skin, chasing away the feeling of dying, his tears leaving a trace of dampness along the way.

When his lips move to John's neck, however, Harold takes in a sharp breath and then trembles. Before John can close his arms around him, Harold's hands already cling to his collar, and John realizes that he hasn't taken off his coat since he got home. Harold grabs John's collar and then pushes it back, struggling to get that coat off John.

After he's made enough room, Harold puts his mouth back on the soft skin on John's neck where the pulse is beating. Harold licks the pulse point for a few times, bringing the sensation of hot, wet, desperation and grief, and then he sucks it, hard. John moans Harold's name, moving his arms involuntarily to Harold's lower back, pulling him closer.

Harold chokes back a sob and then keeps pushing his mouth onto that piece of skin that is evidence of John being alive. And John can feel it, too. His pulse pounds where Harold's lips are. He pants heavily beside Harold's ear, where pink starts to show at its edge. He untucks and pushes up Harold's shirt to stroke the bare skin underneath, feeling the same heat burning where they pressed together. John moves his body accordingly, helping Harold to get his own shirt off and letting him gain access to wherever his hands are going, for Harold's hands bring life, their touches remind John that he still feels things at this moment.

Harold lowers his head, his teeth nipping on the skin near John's collarbone, making John moan louder. Since they've been sleeping together, they've spent quite some time exploring each other's body and preference in bed, and Harold is well-aware that John enjoys it rough. But this isn't Harold offering what John wants. This is Harold urgently needing to remind himself that John is here, still here, feeling and reacting to all the sensations Harold gives him.

"Harold," John pleads, "I'm here. Look at me." John moves his hand on the back of Harold's head, begging him to look up, to look into John's eyes.

Yet Harold lowers his body further. Promptly, John stretches his arms to hold onto Harold, preventing him from falling off the sofa—It's a wonder that both of them haven't, really—but Harold seems not to care. He kisses the inside of John's elbow, rubbing his nipples, nuzzling his navel and below. It makes John quiver in a good way. But, Harold has been so utterly quiet.

"Harold?" John asks while panting. "Please, Harold, talk to me."

Not answering, Harold pulls down John's zipper in one go and slides his hand in, stroking him, and John's hip jerks.

"Wait..." John says, but Harold already bends his neck into a position that's obviously uncomfortable, aiming to take him in. "Slower, Harold," John begs, "You'll hurt yourself."

Harold lets out of a hysterical laugh as if John said something funny. A laugh that sounds more like crying. "John... Please."

"At least let me..." John pushes his hands on the sofa to lift himself up a little, making it easier for Harold to put his mouth on him. "You sure you—"

Harold kisses the top and then swallow the whole length down, his hands holding tightly on John's hip as if begging John to stay... Stay.

Surely I wanted to, John thinks. I'd give anything, anything to stay alive... to stay with you. I never want to leave you. Not really. Not now. And now I'm regretting. All the thoughts tangle in his mind, and then John throws his head back as Harold licks and sucks him to climax. Both of them stay breathless while clinging to the other.

"I'm so sorry, John. It's all my fault." After a while, Harold mutters with his face still buried on John's thigh.

"Why?" John tries to pull Harold up. At least let him lie more comfortably on him. When Harold finally raises his face, his eyes are both red and swollen.

"If I hadn't been acting like a coward in avoiding you..." Harold continues, "we could have had more time."

"No, Harold. I'm still here." Back then, when John still thought that his feelings for Harold might be unrequited, he used to tell himself that it was okay. It was fine by him to be an employee, or a friend, or in any other capacity, really, as long as it meant he could stay in Harold's life. John was willing to give all the rest of his time to Harold, waiting for an answer that might never come. And it turned out the other way around. It was always Harold who gave John more time. "I'm here because of you. You know that. You gave me a second chance, Harold. And now, you give me a second life."

"That's not enough—"

"Harold, come on... Come here." John tries again, gently pulling Harold up and then into a kiss. One hand caressing Harold's face, John tastes the bitterness that still lingers on Harold's tongue. "I haven't gone yet," John whispers in between kisses, "Promise to look at me until then, okay? And remember every hour we spend together."

Harold lets out a sound. While kissing John, he presses one hand on John's left chest, where John moves his hand and covers Harold's hand. They stay like that for a long, long time, bodies pressed together on the sofa, John feels his own heart beating strong and steadily under Harold's touch.

John once thought that he didn't deserve miracles, for perhaps he was too broken, or not good enough, but now John understands that it's never about whether he deserves a miracle or not. Because he _is_. He _is_ Harold's miracle. And Harold is the only reason that he still exists.


	13. Chapter 13

Months after the first case of the Returning, everything comes to a halt in a chilling spring morning. No more people coming back from death. Not a single hospital or police precinct get any case they have to help. The Machine also stays silent, for longer than it has ever done. There's no number. No dead numbers. No irrelevant numbers. Nothing.

Worried that the Machine might have some other issues, Harold checks for a few times. When he can't find anything and asks Nathan to check again just to be sure, Nathan gives him a sad smile while shaking his head.

"There's nothing wrong with the Machine."

"How do you know?"

"Because the problem isn't the Machine, Harold. The problem is time. It's almost running out, and we can sense it better than you do."

Harold's fingers stop on the keyboard, suddenly having trouble breathing.

"When?" Harold asks, his voice uncertain. He doesn't really want to know.

"Soon," Nathan answers, "Go home, Harold. There won't be any numbers for a while. Not when half of the people in this city are saying goodbye."

 

***

 

**Nathan Ingram**

Will is going back to Syria. His plane is at 10 o'clock in the morning. Now Nathan and Olivia are helping him to put the luggage into the trunk. They're going to see Will off at the airport.

Will wanted to change his return ticket so that he could stay with his parents longer, but eventually, Nathan convinced him to go back to his job as scheduled.

"Why? You don't want to have more time together?" Harold asked upon hearing what Nathan said.

"Oh, I do. But I don't want him to go to the airport alone. It'd always been me who left him since Will was a little boy, you know. For my job. For my divorce. For my desire to have more freedom. Now I have this chance to make it up to him. And to recover my relationship with Olivia as a friend and family member. We want to support Will as much as we can. It's time for my son to leave his father. He has a bright future ahead to focus on, not his father walking away from him."

And in this way, Nathan thinks while driving his family to the airport, it'll feel like he's still here waiting for his son to come back with all the experiences and stories he wants to share.

He didn't come back to life just to say goodbye again.

And he didn't come back just to leave his best friend still trapped in guilt and suffer, either.

"There are so many things that probably wouldn't exist had we never known each other," Nathan said before he asked Harold to go home and spend the rest of his time with John. "And I'm glad that most of them left a good impact on the world."

"I've always been thinking about what-ifs since you'd left, Nathan," Harold admitted. "Perhaps the situation would have been different... if I'd stopped being so stubborn. If I'd chosen differently—"

"Then the Machine wouldn't have been what it is now, Harold. It is who we were and those decisions we made... perhaps also all the fights we'd had... that makes the Machine what it is. And it helps people," Nathan said, in earnest. Harold had to understand that. He had never, ever regretted anything that they'd done together. Not a single thing. "It was my pleasure to bring the Machine into life with you, my friend. I wouldn't want to achieve that with anyone else in any other way."

 

***

 

**Maggie Wilson**

The Detective and that man who hadn't known he was dead come to visit again. Maggie knows they really care about Susan, and that brings great relief to her. Especially now.

All four of them sitting in the living room, Detective Carter asks about how they're doing recently while Susan brushing her hair. Maggie knows it would sound weird if a dead girl told people that what she'd missed the most while being dead was her elder sister braiding her hair. But that was the truth.

Susan has always been very talented with doing hair. Maggie can still recall the amount of admiration she had toward Susan the first time she saw the hairstyle Susan done for herself. After Maggie's hair had grown longer, she begged Susan to braid her ponytails, and Susan kept doing it for her every day until they lost each other.

Detective Carter tries to talk with Susan about the fact that dead people might soon disappear. She is worried about how it might affect Susan since Susan has been going out and joining in activities she enjoys more after the Returning.

At first, it was because Maggie was curious about Susan's life. They'd always loved talk through their day before going to bed. Sometimes they'd stayed awake too late, and they couldn't stop yawning all day the next day. And now that Maggie came back to life, they certainly had quite a lot to catch up. Yet, Susan had no answer but a long silence. A few days later, Maggie asked Susan to take her to interesting places in the city. Because Maggie has missed a lot since she'd died, and so has Susan.

Susan will be all right, Maggie knows. Last time they parted, it was too quick, too cruel, and none of them were prepared. Susan had always believed the only reason behind Maggie's death was her, but it wasn't, and Maggie wasn't the only victim.

"Do you know how the local news described us back then, Susan?" Once, Maggie asked.

Maggie was well aware of all that although she forgot how she knew about it. Or _when_ she knew about it. Maybe it was after she returned. Maybe it was during her time while staying dead. She wasn't sure.

Because if you've been dead for a very long time, somehow, you perceive things that happen in both worlds in non-chronological order. As if everything that had happened, is happening, and will happen are all charted on a vast map already; where the living walks within as their time ticking away while the non-living looks down at a higher point from the sphere of no-time.

"No, what did they say?" Susan asked back.

Of course, Susan wouldn't want to read those, even after she was old enough that the adults stopped hiding the newspaper from her. But that wasn't what Maggie wanted to talk about by bringing this up.

"Someone wrote a headline, actually—Two girls went to the fair, and one of them never came back." After a pause, Maggie said, "I didn't like it."

"Me, either." Susan's face grew pale.

"But after I returned, I found that it was true, Susan," Maggie continued. "Just... it wasn't me."

"I don't understand, Mag. Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm going to leave you again soon, Susan. Do me a favor after I'm gone, okay? Go back to that fair and find my lost sister for me. Bring her back and live a life that she could have been living."

Maggie Wilson had been dead for too long that when she first returned, she wasn't sure why—it was just a faint idea possessing in her mind that dead people each returned for a specific reason. But Maggie couldn't figure out her own. She didn't see the point of returning since she'd been so used to being dead, also, why break Susan's heart again?

But later, Maggie realized. She didn't return to Susan because she needed Susan. It was the other way around. Susan needed her. Susan needed her to return and help her so that one day Susan could live a life without Maggie's ghost haunting her.

And now Maggie doesn't worry about Susan anymore.

 

***

 

Before they leave, the man—he said he was John—meets Maggie's eyes, and Maggie knows that he already knew.

"So, you remember now?" She asks while she and Susan see their guests off at the door. "The reason why you were back here in this world?"

"Yeah," John answers. He lowers his gaze. Then, with a bittersweet smile on his lips, John says, "Because I have a purpose.

 

***

 

**Joss Carter**

"How is the investigation going?" John asks while he and Carter are on the way back.

"We've made great progress. Thanks to Cal... We've compared notes and gathered enough evidence to make sure we'll bring HR down, including Alonzo Quinn," Carter says, her voice taut with anger. "We won't let any one of them get away to harm more people this time."

"If I were Beecher," John says, "I'd be glad that I could work this case before leaving."

"Solving your own murder, John? I guess I'd want that, too." Her voice is so much tighter than how she aimed for. Both John and Carter notice that.

"No. You know what I'm talking about, Joss." Like all of them, John thinks, Carter has her own style of stubbornness and ways to guard her feelings. "He worries about you. And we do, too."

"What?" Carter tries to ease the tension by pulling up her smile, but there are already tears filling in her eyes. "You think if Cal hadn't returned and worked this case with me, I would've insisted on doing this alone and got myself harmed or even killed?"

"No." John shakes his head gently. "We certainly hope that we're wrong." Then, he stops and turns to her. "Take care of yourself when you take care of this world, Joss. Don't ever overlook this mission. You're someone this world can't afford to lose."

With a sigh, Carter eventually fails to fight her tears back, and she steps forward to give John a hug. "I'm sorry, John... I'm sorry."

"Don't be," John comforts her. "Thanks for hunting me at the beginning. It was fun."

Carter lets out a soft laugh. After they release each other from the long hug, she asks, "Where are you gonna do now? Going home to Finch?"

"There's another place I'll stop by before that."

 

***

 

**Darren McGrady**

Darren really enjoys playing the trumpet. While drawing let him create a world full of heroes by his side together with whom he can make this world a better place, music sets him free. For a moment, he can forget every bad thing in this world and just immerse in every moment where the music decides to take him.

Thanks to Detective Fusco's help, Darren's foster families welcomed Travis like their own. Just like what Reese said, Darren never had to choose between families. He could have a big, warm family, actually, and together they've created lots of happy memories.

Today is Travis' birthday, and they're celebrating it by having all the families sit around a big table, sharing a nice dinner together. Reese and Detective Fusco are here to join them.

After dinner, Darren plays the trumpet in front of everyone and especially for his brother because he wants to let Travis be so proud of him. And from the smile on his face, Darren knows he is.

As promised, Darren will work hard at school and at his art and music because that was what his brother had always wished for his little brother. And that was also why Reese stepped into his life to help him and prevent him from destroying himself.

Reese had helped him so he could reunite with his brother with no shame. So he could have a family.

"Have you found your family yet?" Before everyone leaves, Darren asks Reese.

"Yes," Reese answers without hesitation, his eyes smiling. "I have."

 

***

 

**Lionel Fusco**

"I'm going to miss you, the bane of my existence," Fusco says after they leave the birthday party.

John grins. "For shooting you from behind and blackmailing you into a life that involves constantly breaking the law?"

"Yeah," Fusco smiles back, "The best disaster I've ever been dragged into. But really. Thanks."

"Like you once said, you were actually good at your job, Lionel," John says mildly. As much as John enjoys teasing Fusco with sarcasm, he knows Fusco can be a good cop and his true nature is to be a loyal friend. "Once HR is gone. And without me threatening you all the time, you can go back to be a good cop again."

"Well, I am not sure..." Fusco says. His grin grows wider as John looking back at him in confusion. "I kinda enjoy the life of constantly breaking the law. Maybe I'll stick around and see if Glasses need a hand."

John blinks, a surge of warmth rising from the bottom of his heart. "Thank you, Lionel."

Fusco nods. After a short silence, he says, "I know you lot are leaving. Nobody knows exactly when. But they say that you'll just know when it comes like an old friend coming to knock the door. Don't go without saying goodbye, John."

"Okay. I won't," John replies.

 

***

 

**Harold Finch**

Harold had never been given a chance to say a proper goodbye to his loved ones. His mom. His dad. Nathan. And Grace.

To some extent, it made him feel like a vagabond. Like he was always being chased or abandoned, always on the run from one place to another. Until John.

Even before they were romantically involved, John's existence had acted as an anchor in Harold's life. Every morning John walked into the library with the footsteps Harold was used to recognizing. Every time John talked to him through the comm, telling him that their number was safe. Every time John said "Thank you, Harold, for saving me" and Harold wanted so badly to argue that no, _no_ , it was you who had saved me, John, in more ways than you could've imagined. John gave him a chance to mend his past mistakes so that he didn't have to live forever shellshocked by the aftermath of those mistakes. John showed him that it was okay to lower his walls and connect with people again even when it meant one day he'd be hurt losing the person all over again, but it was all worth it. It was all worth the pain in the end.

And now, John gives him a chance to say goodbye to the person he loves for the first time in his life. The person Harold will never stop loving. The person Harold will never stop yearning to see again.

Harold learns to mourn when John is still here by his side. When John holds him in a warm embrace and whispers endearments near his ear during the night as the rain keeps falling outside.

Harold learns to live with the grief of losing John when they are nestling in the soft quilt, kissing and making out. When John marks him with affection and prayers, leaving messages that Harold will always remember. Like invisible scars spreading across his body; each seals a wish of John's for his lover. _Live. Don't be sad. Don't forget me. Remember that I love you. Remember... Live, please live._

The end is approaching outside the window of their home. But there's still some time left.

There's still a little time left...

 

***

 

**John Reese**

After he realized that he was already dead, John finds out that he doesn't need to sleep anymore. To make the most of it, John stays up all night watching Harold sleep. Memorizing him. The curve of Harold's lips. How Harold's eyelashes flutter as he enters different stages of sleep. How Harold breathes in and out, his chest moving slightly up and down. Sometimes Harold wakes up from bad dreams calling John's name, in fear that John is already gone. John will offer kisses and hugs and comforting words, and promises that he will never leave without saying goodbye.

As their time ticking away, John recalls more and more details from the memory blank before he'd returned.

"What does that feel like?" Harold asks, caressing John's cheek while John rests his head on Harold's thighs.

"Like I'm walking in a long tunnel. It's very dark inside. I can't see anything."

"Uh huh," Harold encourages.

"And I'm exhausted... like I've been traveling a long way. My body hurts," John says, feeling his body getting tensed at the thought.

Harold moves his hands down to John's shoulders and then arms, offering gentle but firm strokes, helping him to relax.

After a while, Harold asks, "Do you feel better?"

"Um, yes."

"What else do you recall, John?"

"That I almost arrive. There's light at the end of the tunnel..." John describes, "And sounds. I can hear sounds."

"Like what?" Harold whispers.

"Like you," John answers, suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to get closer. He buries his face toward Harold's warm body. "Like you, Harold."

All those senses John has started to recall one detail at a time, those don't only feel like a memory from his past. Those details woven together feel like a place, a destination, where he's now heading. Where he has always meant to be going back to.

Nathan said once that ghosts never lingered. They traced back in the stream of life until they reached their safe place, where they felt most loved, connected to, and at peace. That was the place they were drawn to the most, where they'd eventually end—Inside a fragment of memory that they had created with their loved ones.

"And you're the place I'll always go back to," John whispers. "So don't go anywhere. Wait for me to come back to you."

"How much I wish everything could start all over again," Harold says, his voice breaking a little at its edge.

"It will," John says, "It will, Harold. That's how I come back to you."

John wishes he could be better at words to show Harold what he'd felt. What he feels, now, at this moment. The first time John figures out his love for Harold. The first time John's chest aches just thinking of him. Their first kiss. On that roof. In the loft. In the library. In their bed. Every kiss tastes like the first one. Every kiss has changed something in them and refilled with something new, something living. And John can feel them all at the same time, countless times.

One memory is woven by a hundred details. A hundred details each is woven by a million. The more you recall from a memory, the longer it feels to live in it. Open all your senses and amplify them, letting yourself immerse in the memory, and then there's where forever can be found.

Time never really ends.

 

***

 

One night, John asks Harold for something. "Don't bury me under a stone, Harold, with or without a name on it."

"Okay," Harold answers, his hands on John's back tightened. "But may I ask why?"

"Because I won't be there, under the stone-" John answers. "-away from you... You know that."

"Yes, I know," Harold promises, his voice caressing John's body and soul, softly. Then, after a short while, he asks, "but do you have a preferred place, John? Anywhere. Anywhere you want."

"Um..." John thinks, tenderly nuzzling one side of Harold's neck, sniffing his aftershave. It smells like the ocean, full of calmness and nostalgia. "Remember the seashore house you led me to when I just started to stalk you trying to find your real home?"

Harold lets out soft laughter that brings tiny but satisfying vibration to where their bodies pressed together. "In fact, I do remember."

"I loved it there," John says. "Take me there and make that place my final memories."

 

***

 

**Harold**

Bear has been playing with the waves for a whole afternoon, and now the sun is setting, it's time to go home.

Bear runs back to Harold after Harold calls his name, and then presses his wet body on Harold's good leg, sharing his enthusiasm with his master.

While he fastens the leash back to his collar, Harold wonders why Bear's behavior doesn't change. When John was in Rikers, Bear was obviously undergoing separation anxiety. But Bear doesn't act any differently now.

Now that he thinks of this, Harold recalls, Bear didn't behave differently when John returned, either. Harold lets the thought sink in, and finds that it brings him great comfort. It's just like what John tried to explain to him, that human experience is, in essence, limited. Just because there is a lack of light to shine on an existence, doesn't mean the existence doesn't exist. After all, it's all about perception.

"Come on, Bear," Harold calls, "Let's go home."

Then they leave the beach, leaving two rows of footprints on the sand that are washed away by the waves in no time.

 

***

 

**John**

John is walking along the street.

John isn't sure where he came from, but he knows where he's heading. Their tea is warm in his hand, and the pastries smell delightful. He is happy, content, and looking forward to the coming day, for today he's going to help someone. With the man he loves. With the man who also loves him back.

John has traveled most of his life through an endless, dark tunnel but now, now he knows there's a light waiting for him at the other end. There is his purpose. There is his second chance. There is his home.

There is Harold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by Richard Siken:
> 
> "Leave the lights on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to dream about. We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the bread and devour it. I'm in the hallway again, I'm in the hallway. The radio's playing my favorite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I'll keep walking toward the sound of your voice."
> 
> Also, sharing a song that has been keeping me company from the initial outline planning till the very end. I feel it also benefited the vibes of this story somehow. :)  
> [The Cinematic Orchestra - Breathe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmlhCC2VAXo)


End file.
